
Class _ 

fopyri^luN 

COPYRIGHT DEPOSIT. 



HINDS & NOBLE'S 

NEW DIALOGUES AND PLAYS 

PRIMARY, INTERMEDIATE, ADVANCED 



Adapted from the popular works of 
well-known authors 



BY 

BINNEY GUNNISON 

Instructor in the School of Expression, Boston ; formerly Instructor in Elocution 
in Worcester Academy, and in Brooklyn Polytechnic Institute 






COPYRIGHT, 1898, BY HINDS & NOBLE 



HINDS & NOBLE 
4-5-1 3-1 4 Cooper Institute, New York City 

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TABLE OF CONTENTS. 



PRIMARY DIALOGUES. 

HUMOROUS. 

PAGB 

Training the Ruggleses - - - - Kate Douglas Wiggin - - I 

Patsy's Visit ------- Kate Douglas Wiggin - - 7 

Aunt Ellen's Hatchet ------ 13 

The New Baby' ------ Frances Hodgson Burnett 18 

The Unburied Woman --- 21 

Playing Hookey - Sophie May 25 

Hearsay ------ 29 

Tired of Church ------ _.._...-.. 34 

The Inkstand ---.--- Sophie May ------ 37 

The Sword - - Berquin 41 

SERIOUS. 

Fauntleroy and the Earl - - - - Frances Hodgson Burnett - 53 

The Reconciliation ----- Louise M. Alcott - - - 59 

Keeping House ------- Sophie May ------ 66 

Adopt my Baby Kate Douglas Wiggin - - 73 

Selling the Image ------ Mrs. C. V. Jamison - - - 80 

The Sick Boy's Plan - - - - • - - 88 

A Child's Love - - 94 

A Manly Boy 99 

A Tiny Quarrel Sophie May 103 

The Mouse- ------- Mrs. C. V. Jamison - - 107 

Nell's Christmas Stocking - - - J. L. Harbour 118 

Father Time's Granddaughters - Nathaniel Hawthorne - - 126 

iii 



IV 



TABLE OF OONT1 NTS. 

INTERMEDIATE DIALOGUES. 



HUMOROl'S. 



The Schoolmaster 

A Confession of Love - - - 

Not Quite 

Captain Kempthorn- - - - 

The Restless Youth - - - - 
Testing the Suitors - - - - 
The Emperor and the Deserter 

Mike Gets a Job 

The Stupid Lover ----- 

Our Daughter 

His Own Pills 

Louis XIV. and his Minister - 
The Challenge 



W. T. Adams 



John PooU - - 

II. W. Longfellow 



A. Conan Doyle - - - . 
Richard Brindsley Sheridan 



1 
10 
17 

43 

70 



SERIOUS. 

■ - - Hall Caine ----- 



The Homeless Old Man - - - - 

The Witch of Vesuvius - - - Bulwer Lytton 

His Enemy's Honor 

Cleopatra and the Messenger - 
The Bishop's Silver Candlesticks 
The Peasant Hoy's Vindication - 

The Baron and the Jew - - - 

In Love with his Wife 

Christian Eorgiveness 

A Wife and a Home 

Aurelian and Zenobia William Wan 



Shakespeare 
Victor Hugo 
Dimond 

Walter Scott 



I07 
l 12 
[21 

I 2~ 
I JO 

>.o 
139 

145 

•5» 

i<. 1 



ADVANCED DIALOGUES. 

HUMOROUS. 
The French Duel Mark Twain - 

Mrs. ILudcastle's Journey - - Oliver Goldsmith 
A Matter of Duty Anthony H 



TABLE OF CONTENTS. 



Pride against Pride - - - - 

Tom and Roxy 

A Disastrous Announcement- 
Miss Judith Macan - - - - 
Helen and Modus - - - - 
Sam Weller and his Father- - 

Extracting a Secret F. Marion Crawford 

Open or Shut -. Alfred de Mtisset - 

Taming a Wife ------ John Tobin - - - 

The Prairie Princesses 



West land Mars ton - - 
Mark Twain - - - 
Charles Dickens - . - 
Charles Lever - - - 
Sheridan Knowles - - 
Charles Dickens - - 



25 
39 
47 
53 
62 

73 
78 
84 
94 
[17 



SERIOUS. 

The Suffering of Nehushta - - - F Marion Crawford - - ■ 129 

" Gentlemen, the King ! " - - - Fobert Barr 139 

Ben-Hur and Iras ------ Lew Wallace - - - - - 149 



Savonarola and Lorenzo - - 

Tito's Armor 

Love Conquers Revenge - - 
Becket Saves Rosamund- - - 
The Princess and the Countess 

Queen Catherine 

Deacon Brodie 

Pizarro and Rolla 

Raimond Released - - - - 
Mrs. Harwood's Secret - - - 
Innocence Rewarded - - - 



Alfred Ansthi - - - - 157 
George Eliot - - - - - 164 
Fobert Byr ----- 173 
Alfred, Lord Tennyson - - 1S0 
F. L. Stevenson - - - - 187 
Shakespeare - - - - - 193 
Heirfey and Stevenson - 200 
Fichard Brinsley Sheridan- 207 
Mrs. Felicia Hemans - - 213 
Mrs. M. O. W. Olipha7it - 218 
Oliver Goldsmith - - - 231 



EXPLANATORY PREFACE. 

Dramatization of popular novels is the fashion of the 
day. In this volume are dramatizations of a somewhat 
different kind. Many novels utterly unsuited to complete 
dramatization have striking scenes full of dramatic | 
bilities. A few such scenes are here presented as dialog 
They are for children, for school boys and girls, for " studies " 
in professional schools of dramatic training, and even for 
entertainments of the highest class and professional aim. 

Too many books of dialogues have been published with- 
out any particular reference to actual performance on plat- 
form or stage. There are no suggestions of stage busiiu ss ; 
the characters neither enter nor leave ; while the dial 
progresses, no one apparently moves or feels emotion. 
Nothing is said at the beginning of the dialogue to show 
the situation of the characters; no hints are given as to the 
part about to be played. In plays, as ordinarily printed, 
there is very little to show either character or situation, all 
must be found out by a thorough study of the play. This 
may be well for the careful student, but the average amateur 

has no time, and often only little inclination, to peruse a 
whole play or a whole novel in order to play a little part in 
an entertainment. 

Perhaps the strongest feature of this book is the carefully 
prepared introduction to each dialogue. Not only are the 



EXPLANATORY PREFACE. Vll 

characters all named in order of importance, but the char- 
acteristics, the costumes, the relation of one to another, age, 
size, etc., are all mentioned. Most important of all is what 
is called the Situation. Here the facts necessary to a clear 
comprehension of the dialogue following are given very con- 
cisely, very briefly, but, it is hoped, adequately for the pur- 
pose in hand. The story previous to the opening of the 
dialogue is related ; the condition of the characters at the 
beginning of the scene is stated ; the setting of the platform 
is carefully described. 

The Characters and the Situation before each dialogue 
will fairly well state what must be known before any 
adequate production of the dialogue should be undertaken. 
Yet the editor urges very strenuously that every one who 
attempts to play a part set down in these dialogues read, 
with as much care as time will permit, the whole play or 
novel, from which the dialogue is only an adaptation. The 
characters will then become a living reality which no brief 
introduction, however suggestive, could ever hope to 
create. 

Exact descriptions of dress (as on page 80 of the 
Primary Dialogues} need not be literally followed out, 
provided something of similar nature be substituted. The 
exact description is given in order to show the picturesque 
little figure of Dea. Any costume which will make her 
striking and picturesque will perhaps answer the purpose. 
The same principle holds in regard to furniture on the plat- 
form. In most cases a few general words have sufficed to in- 
dicate the kind of room the dialogue occurs in, and the detail 
is left to the imagination of the manager of the performance. 
In some cases very exact directions are given. It is best to 



EXPLANATORY PRE] u I . 



follow them out literally. But if for any reason the detail 
is not followed, the dialogue should be very carefully 
scanned for any allusions to "properties" left out, and 
these allusions should be changed. 

The directions for acting scattered throughout the dia- 
logues in parentheses are meant only as suggestions. A 
volume would have to accompany each dialogue, if all the 
actions of face and of body and the inflections and tones of 
voice were scrupulously set down. The endeavor should 
always be to convey the spirit of the dialogue. The details 
can with much more safety be left to the individual actor. 
The spirit should be carefully criticised by a competent 
director. 

Many dialogues have several scenes in them, and there 
may not be time to give all the scenes. In that i 
the earlier scenes may be condensed into a summary and 
prefixed to the scene given by a short speech, or the sum- 
mary may be printed on the program. 

An evening's entertainment may make use of these dia- 
logues in many ways. 

(i) One, two or three dialogues may form the whole 
entertainment. 

(2) There may be music of different kinds appropriate 
to a single dialogue of some length, and that dialogue may 
occupy the centre of the evening's entertainment. ( 
dialogues for Bttch an evening in the advanced part are 

"Gentlemen, the King !"" Love Conquers Revel 

" I'rairie Princesses," "Taming a Wife." 

(3) A whole evening may be given to a single book, 

from which dialogues and recitations arc taken with appro- 
priate introduction and connecting summaries. This is 



EXPLANATORY PREFACE. K 

a new and interesting form of educational entertainment. 
There are more than a dozen of the dialogues of this book 
which could be used with excellent effect in just such 
an evening's entertainment. In the advanced part the 
" Suffering of Nehushta " would be a part of "Zoroaster." 
It would be in this case wise to have the last scene given in 
the form of a recitation, for the dramatic form requires the 
costuming and grouping of many people on the platform at 
one time. The spectacular effect, however, if the people 
can be obtained and well drilled, will be much more 
striking in dramatic form. In Romola, the culmination of 
the action can be better told than acted. "Tito's Armor " 
cannot truthfully represent the death of Tito and Bald- 
assarre on the stage. In Ben-Hur the most prominent 
place on the program will naturally be kept for the Chariot 
Race, but the dialogue between Ben-Hur and Iras will be 
almost as interesting. Recitations may lead up to the 
dialogue " Innocence Rewarded," where the Vicar of 
Wakefield at last is recompensed for his innocent and 
unworldly life. The very best use to which " The Bishop's 
Silver Candlesticks " can be put is to insert it in a program 
of selections from Victor -Hugo's great novel, " Les 
Mis£rables," which is one of the. best of books for an even- 
ing's entertainment. 

(4) An evening may be spent.' with an author like Mark 
Twain, Robert Louis Stevenson, Alfred Austin, Anthony 
Hope, Dickens, Tennyson,' Longfellow, Shakespeare. 
Songs may be sung, poems recited and dramatic scenes 
acted. All of these authors mentioned and many more are 
represented among the dialogues of this book. 

(5) There are many occasions when a dramatic scene, 



X EXPLANATORY PREFACE. 

short or long, but fairly complete in itself, is an excellent 
feature to enliven a program of music, speeches, bus I 
and conversation. For such needs "A Matter of Duty. " 
"Sam Weller and his Father," "Miss Judith Macau." 
'•Open or Shut," "Louis XIV, and his Minister," "The 
Homeless Old Man" and many others maybe suggested. 
(6) An evening of poetry ought to include in the pro- 
gram dramatic scenes, and there are poetical dialogues in 
all of the parts of this book. An interesting study might 
be a contrast of poetry and prose in dialogue. 

A glance at the first page of any dialogue will readily dis- 
cover the number of actors required and the char;;. 
acted. There are dialogues for any number of persons 
from two to twenty, with speaking parts for from two to 
about a dozen. 

In many of the primary dialogues there are not only 
parts for little folks but parts for adults. Where adults can 
not easily be secured (sometimes even when they can be) 
young people with proper costuming will perform the parts 
admirably. 

The amount of work required to compile this book has 
been prodigious and has necessarily been spread over a 
number of years of a very busy life. Although the utmost 
care has been exercised, inaccuracies and inconsistencies 
may have crept in. Still there remains the feeling that 
some service is done the public in sending forth a book ol 
dialogues containing so much of absolutely new material 
adapted from the best literature, and gathered from the 
most recent sources. 

r.iwi v (a NNISON. 
BostOHx November^ 1898. 



TRAINING THE RUGGLESES. 



Adapted from Mrs. Kate Douglas Wiggin's " Birds' Christmas Carol. y ' 



CHARACTERS. 

Mrs. Ruggles, a rather thin hard-working washerwoman. 

Sarah Maud, Peter, Susan, Kitty, Peoria, Cornelius, 
Clement, Eily, Larry, her nine children in the order 
of their ages and sizes. 

Situation. — Mrs. Bird, in the fine house on the avenue, in- 
vites all the Ruggles children to a Christmas dinner. 
Mrs. Ruggles puts all nine through a most thorough 
process of preparation. They are washed and dressed, 
and then trained in manners. 

This dialogue is the training which takes place in the 
kitchen of Mrs. Ruggles. As there are not chairs for 
all ten, the smallest ones sit on the wood-box and the 
coal-hod. 

Mrs. Ruggles is in her working atti7-e. The chil- 
dren have costumes of all varieties and combinations. 
Larry, the smallest, is continually tugging at a sash 
which holds his waist and skirt together. 



Mrs. Ruggles enters, followed by her nine children. 

Mrs. Ruggles. — There ! there ! now you young ones set 
down in your places. Eily, you'll have ter set on the wood- 



2 TRAINING I HE ki GGU 51 5. 

box and I -any on the < oal-hod. — There '. (She sits down her- 
self and wipes the perspiration from her face with her apron.) 
Well, if I do say so as shouldn't, I never see a cleaner, 
more stylish mess o' children in my life ! 1 do wish I 
gles could look at ye for a minute ! {Larry pulls at his 
sash) — Larry Ruggles, how many times have I got ter tell 
yer not ter keep pullin' at yer sash ? Haven't 1 told yer 
if it comes ontied, yerwaist 'n' skirt '11 part comp'ny in the 
middle, 'n' then where '11 yer be? Now, look me in the 
eye, all of yer ! I've of'en told yer what kind of a family 
the McGrills was. I've got reason to be proud, goodness 
knows! Your uncle is on the /dice force o' New Vork 
City ; you can take up the paper most any day an' see his 
name printed out — James McGrill — 'n' I can't have my 
children fetched up common, like some folks' : when they 
go out they've got to have close, and learn to act decent ! 
Now 1 want ter see how yer goin' to behave when yer git 
there to-night. Let's start in at the beginnin' 'n' act out 
the whole business. Pile into the bedroom there (she 
points to the entrance), every last our of ye, 'n' slow me 
how yer goin' to go int' the parlor. This'll be the parlor, 
'n' I'll be Mis' Bird. ( The children all scamper out, and 
after considerable clatter, come straggling in. Sarah Maud 
comes first, with a very sheepish took: the small ones g 
and Larry tumbles in headforemost.) There, I knewyer'd 
do it in some se< h too! way ! (She has sat up with a 
haughty expression to represent Mrs. Bird.) Now go in 
there and try it over again, every last one o'ye, 'n' if I 
can't come in on two legs he can stay ter home, -d'yei 
hear? ( They stop giggling and back into the bedroom, and 

presently issue in lock step, Indian file, with <r scared look 

on every face .) No, no, no: That's worse yet \ yer look 

for all the world like a gang 1 prison* rs 1 I here ain't no 



TRAINING THE RUGGLESES. 3 

style ter that ; spread out more, can't yer, 'n' act kind o' 
careless-like — nobody's goin' ter kill ye ! {They spread out 
more and take their seats. Mrs. Ruggles speaks impres- 
sively. ) Now, yer know there ain't enough decent hats to go 
round, 'n' if there was I don' know's I'd let yer wear 'em, 
for the boys would never think to take 'em off when they 
got inside — but anyhow, there ain't enough good ones. 
Now, look me in the eye. You needn't wear no hats, none 
of yer, 'n* when yer get int' the parlor, 'n' they ask yer ter 
lay off yer hats, Sarah Maud must speak up 'n' say it was 
sech a pleasant evening 'n' sech a short walk that yer left 
yer hats to home to save trouble. Now, can yer remember? 

All {they shout). — Yes, marm ! 

Mrs. Ruggles. — What have you got ter do with it ? Did 
I tell you to say it? Warn't I taikin' ter Sarah Maud? 

All {feebly) . — Yes, marm ! 

Mrs. Ruggles. — Now git up, all of ye, an' try it. ( They 
all stand.) Speak up, Sarah Maud. {She tries in vain to 
make a sound.) Quick ! 

Sarah Maud {in agony). — Ma thought — it was — sech a 
pleasant hat that we'd — we'd better leave our short walk to 
home . ( The boys shout and all giggle in spite of themselves. ) 

Mrs. Ruggles {groaning). — Oh, whatever shall I do with 
yer? I s'pose I've got to learn it to yer ! It was such a 
pleasant evening. 

Sarah Maud {gloomily). — It was sech a pleasant evening. 

Mrs. Ruggles. — An' sech a short walk. 

Sarah Maud. — And sech a short walk. 

Mrs. Ruggles. — You children sit down and be quiet. — 
That we left our hats to home to save trouble. 

Sarah Maud. — That we left our hats to home. 

Mrs. Ruggles. — To save trouble. Mind you put that in. 
Now say it all. 



4 TRAINING nil RUGG1 I SI 5. 

Sarah Maid. - It was sech a pleasant evening that ire 
left our hats to home to save trouble. 

Mrs. RuGGLES. -Oh, dear! Well, that will do. Sit down 
Sarah Maud. Now, Cornelius, what are you goin' tei 
ter make yerself good comp'ny? 

I irnelius {scared). — Me? Dunno! 

Mrs. RuGGLES. — Well, ye ain't goin' to set there liki 
bumj) on a log 'thout savin' a word ter pa j 
ye? (lie squirms,) Ask Mis' Bird how she's feelin' this even- 
in', or if Mr. Bird's hevin' a busy season, or how this kind o' 
weather agrees with him, or somethin' like that. — Now. 
we'll make b'lieve we've got ter the dinner — that won't be 
so hard, 'cause yer'll have somethin' to do — it's awful 
bothersome to stan' round an' act stylish. — If they have 
napkins, Sarah Maud down to Peory (she points them out), 
may put 'em in their laps, 'n' the rest of ye can tuck 'em 
in yer necks. Don't eat with yer fingers — don't grab no 
vittles off one 'nother's plates : don't reach lor nothin', but 
wait till yer asked, 'n' it" you never git asked, don't git up 
and grab it. — Don't spill nothin' on the tablecloth, or [ike's 
not Mis' Bird'll send yer away from the table, n' 1 hope 
she will if yer do! — Susan! keep your handkerchief in your 
la]) where Peon- can borry it if she needs it, 'n' 1 hope 
she'll know when she does need it. though 1 don't expect 
it. — Now, we'll try a few things ter see how they'll 
(She draws up her mouth and puts on a most supercilious 
air to imitate the supposed Afrs. Bird.) Mr. Clement, do 
you eat cramb'ry sarse? 

Clemeni (forgetting that he is only rehearsing). — Bet 
yer life ! 

Mr-. RUGGJ ES. — ( 'lenient Mc( dill Ruggles, *\^ you mean to 
tell me that you'd Saj that to a dinner-party ? I '11 give you one 

more chance. Mr. Clement, will you take some of the cram 

b'ry? 



TRAINING THE RUGGLESES. 5 

Clement {in a subdued tone). — Yes, marm, thank ye 
kindly, if you happen ter have any handy. 

Mrs. Ruggles. — Very good indeed ! But they won't give 
yer two tries to-night, — yer jest remember that !— Miss 
Peory, do you speak for white or dark meat? 

Peoria {shyly). — I ain't perticler as ter color, — anything 
that nobody else wants will suit me. 

Mrs. Ruggles. — First-rate ! Nobody could speak more 
genteel than that. — Miss Kitty, will you have hard or soft 
sarse with your pudden' ? 

Kitty {with an easy, graceful bow). — Hard or soft? 
Oh ! A little of both, if you please, an' I'm much obliged. 
{They all point at Kitty in scorn, and Peter grunts very 
audibly.) 

Mrs. Ruggles. — You just stop your gruntin', Peter Rug- 
gles ; that warn't greedy, that was all right. J wish I could 
git it inter your heads that it ain't so much what yer say, as 
the way you say it. Eily, you an' Larry's too little to train, 
so you just look at the rest, an' do's they do, 'n' the Lord 
have mercy on ye 'n' help ye to act decent ! Now, is there 
anything more ye'd like to practice? 

Peter {gloomily). — If yer tell me one more thing, I can't 
set up an' eat ; I'm so cram full o' manners now, I'm ready 
ter bust, 'thout no dinner at all. 

Cornelius. — Me too ! 

Mrs. Ruggles {sarcastically). — Well, I'm sorry for ye 
both ; if the 'mount o' manners yer've got on hand now 
troubles ye, you're dreadful easy hurt ! Now, Sarah Maud, 
after dinner, about once in so often, you must git up 'n' 
say, " I guess we'd better be goin' ; " 'n' if they say, "Oh 
no, set a while longer," yer can set ; but if they don't say 
nothin' you've got ter get up 'n' go. Now, hev yer got that 
int' yer head? 



6 TRAINING THE RUGGLES 

Sarah Maud (repeating in terror). — "Aboutronce b 
often." (Mournfully). Well, &eems as if this whole dinner- 
party set right square on top 'o me! Mebbe I could 
manage my own manners, but ter manage nine manners< 

worse' n staying to home ! 

Mrs Ruggi ES ( with good nature) . — I guess you'll get along. 
I wouldn't mind if folks would only say, " Oh, childern will 
be childern ; " but they won't. They'll say, " band o' (lood- 
ness, who fetched them childern up?" — It's quarter past 
five, 'n' yer can go now. (They all s/a>/ along.) Re- 
member 'bout the hats — don't all talk ter once— Susan, 
lend yer han'k'chief ter Peory, — Peter, don't keep screw in' 
yer scarf-pin, — Cornelius, hold yer head up straight, — Sarah 
Maud, don't take yer eyes off o' Larry, V Larry you keep 
holt o' Sarah Maud V do jest as she says {as they finally 
disappear she follows and says), 'n' whatever you do. all of 
yer, never forgit for one second that yer mother was a 
McGrill. (She goes out.) 



PATSY'S VISIT. 



Adapted from " Patsy," by Mrs. Kate Douglas Wiggin. 



CHARACTERS. 

Miss Kate, a pleasant-faced young lady, neatly dressed. 

Patsy Dennis, a small boy, with shrunken, deformed body, 
large eyes, and a big head of hair. 

Situation. — Miss Kate conducts a kindergarten in the 
neglected part of a great city. In the afternoon, after 
the school has been dismissed, she is sitting by her table, 
wearily thinking over the events of the day, when she 
falls asleep. She is azuakened by the entrance of little 
Patsy, who wants to join the school. The following is 
the conversation which takes place. 

Patsy has ti'ied to wash his face, but has left the 
center of it untouched and grimy. His jacket is ragged 
and torn away ; one leg of his trousers is slit up the 
side and flaps as he walks ; the crown of his hat is 
gone, and a bruised orange bulges out of his pocket. » 

The conversation takes place in a pleasant room, 
with plants and flowers in it. On the walls hang 
pictures of a dog, of a bear, and of some chickens. 
There are several chairs for little folks in the room, and 
there is a table on which stands a globe of gold-fish. A 
bird-cage swings from the ceiling, with a canary in it, 

7 



8 patsy's visit. 

Miss Kate enters and sits by table* 

Miss Kate. — I suppose most people would call this a 
hard and monotonous life. There is an eternal regularity 
in the succession of amusing and heart-breaking incidents, 
but it is not monotonous, for I am too close to all the 
problems that bother this workaday world, — so close that 
they touch me on every side. Xo missionary can come so 
near to these people. I am so close that I can feel the 
daily throb of their need and they can feel the throb of my 
sympathy. But my brain gets tired — so tired, — so tired. 
[She nods and falls asleep in her chair.) 

PATS\ enters and takes a seat on tJie other side of the table. 

Patsy. — Ahem ! Ahem ! 

Miss Kate (starting quickly and sitting up very straight and 
then discovering Patsy). — Well, sir, did you come to see me ? 

Patsy.— Yes, I did. 

MlSS Kati . — Let me think ; 1 don't seem to rememl 
I am so sleepy. Are you one of my little friends? 

PATSY. — No, I hain't yit, but I'm goin' to be. 

Miss Kate. — That's good, and we'll begin right now, 
shall we? 

PATSY. — I knowed yer fur Miss Kate the minute I seen 
yer. 

Miss KATE, — How was that? 

PATSY. — The boys said as how you was a kind o* pretty 
Lady, with tOWSly hair ill front. 

Mi^s Kate (she turns away an instant with a look of 
horror), — I'm very much obliged to the boys. 
Patsy. — Kin yer take me in? 
Miss Kate. — what? Here? Into the Kindergarten? 

Paisy. — Yes, I bin wait in' this yer long whiles fur to get in. 



PATSY'S VISIT. 9 

Miss Kate {looking at him doubtfully) . — Why, my dear 
little boy, you're too — big, aren't you? We have only tiny 
little people here, you know ; not six years old. You are 
more, aren't you? 

Patsy. — Well, I'm nine by the book ; but I ain't more'n 
scerce six along o' losing them three year. 

Miss Kate. — What do you mean, child ? How could you 
lose three years? 

Patsy. — I lost 'em on the back stairs, don't yer know. 
My father he got nghtin' mad when he was drunk, and 
pitched me down two nights of 'em, and my back was most 
clean broke in two, so I couldn't git out o' bed forever, till 
just now. 

Miss Kate. — Why, poor child, who took care of you? 

Patsy. — Mother, she minded me when she warn't out 
washin'. 

Miss Kate. — And did she send you here to-day? 

Patsy. — Well ! however could she, bein' as how she's 
dead? I s'posed you knowed that. She died after I got 
well ; she only waited for me to git up, anyhow. 

Miss Kate {sympathetically). — What's your name, dear 
boy? 

Patsy. — Patsy. 

Miss Kate. — Patsy what? 

Patsy. — Patsy nothin' ! just only Patsy ; that's all of it. 
The boys call me " Humpty Dumpty " and " Rags," but 
that's sassy. 

Miss Kate. — But all little boys have another name, Patsy. 

Patsy. — Oh, I got another, if yer so dead set on it, — it's 
Dinnis, — but Jim says 't won't wash ; 'tain't no 'count, and 
I wouldn't tell yer nothin' but a sure-pop name, and that's 
Patsy. Jim says lots of other fellers out to the 'sylum has 
Dinnis fur names, and they ain't worth shucks, nuther. 
Dinnis he must have had orful much boys, I guess. 



hi i\\i<\ - \ BIT. 

Mi-s Kate. — Who is Jim? 

Patsy. — Him and ['a brothers, kind o' brothers, not 

'nul'f brothers. Oh, I dunno how it is 'zactly, — Jim Ml tell 
yer. He dunno OS 1 be, yer know, 'n' he dunno hut 1 be, 
'n' he's afeard to leave go o' me for f tar 1 be. See? 

Mi>s Kate. — Do you and Jim live together? 

Patsy.— Yes, we live at Mis' Kennett's. Jim swipes the 
grub ; I build the fires 'n' help cook 'n' wipe dishes Jot Jin 
when I ain't sick, 'n' I mind Mis' Kennett's babies right 
along, — she most allers has new ones, 'n' she gives me my 
lunch for doin' it. 

Mi— KATE. — Is Mrs. Kennett nice and kind? 

PATSY. — — h, yes; she's orful busy, yer know, 'n' won't 
stand no foolin'. 

Miss Kate. — Is there a Mr. Kennett? 

PATSY. — Sometimes there is, 'n' most allers there ain't. 
(S/ir looks puzzled.) He's allers out O work, yer know, 'u 
he don't sleep ter home, 'n' it yer want him yer have to hunt 
him up. He's real busy now, though, — doin' fine. 

Miss Kati .—That's good. What does he do? 

Patsy. — He marches with the workingmen's percessions 
'n' holds banners. 

Miss Kate. — I see. — And you haven't any father, poor 

little man? 

PATSY. — Ye bet yer life I don't want no more father in 
mine. He knocked me down them stairs, and then he 
went off in a ship, and I don't go a cent on fathers!- I 
is tin's a '/.animation ? 

MlSS Kan ( <i little startled), — Yes, it's a sort of one, 
Patsy, — all the kind we have. 

Patsy. -And do 1 have to bring any red tape? 
Mi- Kate.— What do you mean? 

PATSY. — Why, Jim said he bet 't would take an orful lot 'o 



PATSY S VISIT. II 

red tape t' git me in. {He works away at his pocket and 
finally pulls out a batte?'ed orange.) Here's an orange I 
brung yer ! It's been skwuz some, but there's more in it. 

Miss Kate {with a forced expression of gratitude). — 
Thank you, Patsy. — Now, let us see ! ' You want to come to 
the Kindergarten, do you, and learn to be a happy little 
working-boy? But oh, Patsy, I'm like the old woman in the 
shoe, I have so many children I don't know what to do. 

Patsy. — Yes, I know. Jim knows a boy what went here 
wunst. He said yer never licked the boys ; and he said, 
when the " nifty" little girls come to git in, with their white 
aprons, yer said there warn't no room ; but when the dirty 
chaps with tored close come, yer said yer'd make room. 
Jim said as how yer'd never show me the door, sure. — 
P'raps I can't come every day, yer know, 'cos I might have 
fits. 

Miss Kate. — Fits ! Good gracious, child ! What makes 
you think that? 

Patsy {composedly). — Oh, I has 'em. I kicks the foot- 
board clean off when I has 'em bad, all along . o' my losin' 
them three year ! — You've got things fixed up mighty handy 
here, haven't yer? Fishes — 'nd c'nary birds — 'nd flowers 
— 'nd pictures — is there stories to any of 'em ? 

Miss Kate. — Stories to every single one, Patsy ! We've 
just turned that corner by the little girl feeding chickens, 
and to-morrow we shall begin on that splendid dog by the 
window. 

Patsy {very excited) . — Jimmy ! I'm glad I got in in time 
for that! — 'nd ain't that a bear by the door thar? 

Miss Kate. — Yes ; that's a mother bear with cubs. 

Patsy. — Has he got a story, too? 

Miss Kate. — Everything has a story in this room. 

Patsy. — Jiminy ! 'ts lucky I didn't miss that one ! There's 



I 2 i\\i>\ - VISIT. 

a splendid bear in a s'loon on Fourth Street, — mebbe the 

man would leave him go a spell if you told him what a nice 
place you hed up here. Say, them fishes keep it up lively, 
don't they? — S'pose they're playin' tag? 

Miss Kate (smiling). — I shouldn't wonder, it looks like 
it. Now, Patsy (she rises)) I must be going home, butyou 
shall come to-morrow at nine o'clock, surely, remember I 
and the children will be so glad to have another little friend. 
You'll dress yourself nice and clean, won't you ! 

Patsy (gets out of chair). — Well, I should smile! but 
these is the best I got. I got another part to this hat. though 
(he holds it up), and another pocket belongs with i 
britches. — Ain't I clean? 1 cleaned myself by the feelin' ! 

Miss Kate (handing him a hand-mirror from the tabic). 
— Here's a glass, dear: how do you think you succeeded? 

Patsy (in astonishment). — Jiminyl 1 didn't get much 
of a sweep on that, did 1, now"-' But don't you fret, I've 
got the lay of it now, and I'll just polish her oil red-hot 
to-morrer, 'n' don't you forgit it ! 

MlSS K.vi E. — Patsy, come into this Other room and I'll \ 
you a warm bun and a gia>s of milk ; let's eat and drink 
together, because this is the beginning of our friendship ; 
but please don't talk street words to Mis^ Kate : she doesn't 
like them. I'll do everything 1 can to make you have a 
good time, and you'll try to do a few things to please me, 
won't you? (Patsy looks embarrassed, twirls his hat-brim 
and JolloK'S her out.) 



AUNT ELLEN'S HATCHET. 



CHARACTERS. 

Aunt Ellen, a young lady, gentle and attractive to children. 

Gladys, a very small girl. 

Alice, Ida, two other girls not quite so small. 

Harry, a small boy. 

Situation. — Aunt Ellen is entreated by the children for a 
story. She tells one which stirs tip the consciences of 
them all so that at the end of the story they confess to 
several ludicrous sins. 

They all sit in a curve about Aunt Ellen, who has 
an arm-chair in the cetiter of the platform. The best 
order is Harry, Gladys, Aunt Ellen, Alice, Ida. Let 
the children show all the interest they feel at the story 
Aunt Ellen tells. The interest of the audience depends 
on the interest the children feel and show. 

Enter Aunt Ellen and Harry, Ida, Alice and Gladys, 
with some confusion. 

Alice. — You will tell us a story, won't you, auntie ? 

Aunt Ellen {scanning their faces) . — You really want a 
story, do you? 

All. — Oh, yes, yes ! 

Aunt Ellen. — Well, come sit down and be quiet, then. 
{They take seats, with Gladys next to Aunt Ellen.) 



Alice [after they art seated). — A fairy story, you ki 

\ xl j.;, 1 1 N . — -\ fairy story? I don't know about that. 
I told a little boy a fairy story once, and he went right off 

and whispered to his mother that 1 was a very wicked lady, 
for the story wasn't true, not a bit. 

1 Iakry. — Poh ! he was a smart boy. 

\ ( N , I;,,, N ._I don't like to be called a wicked lady, you 

know. 

Alice. — There now,auntie,don't you s'pose we know the\ 're 
only play-stories? Just as it we hadn't a speck of sense ! 

Aunt Ellen {covering her eyes with her fingers). — Well, 
let me see. Once upon a time, when the moon was full — 

Gladys.— Full of what? (She looks straight up into 
Aunt Ellen's face.) Full of fairies? 

Ai m Ellen (stroking Gladys's hair).— When the moon 
was round, my child. Butwait I'll tell a story Gladys -an 
understand— wouldn't you, my dears? When 1 was a little 

girl— 

All.— That's right. Oh, tell about that. ( They settle 
themselves to listen.) 

Gladys.— Was you about as big as me? And was your 

name little Ellen t 

Al N | p, | , M . — Yes, they (ailed me little Ellen sometimes, 

and sometimes Nellie. When 1 was about as old asAlu e, 1 
happened to go into the back-room one day, and saw Uncle 
William's hatchet lying on the meat-block. I knew I had 
no right to touch it, but it came into my head that I would 

try to break open someclams. The hatchet, instead of< ' 
ing the shells, came down with full lor. am my foot ! j The 
children start.) 1 had on thick boots, but it cut through 
my right boot deep into the bone. Oh, how 1 si reamedl 
Am. > (looking seared).— -1 should think you would, 
auntie. Did it bring the blood? 



AUNT ELLENS HATCHET. 1 5 

Aunt Ellen. — Yes, indeed ! Why, when I went into the 
kitchen, ray footsteps were tracked with little pools of blood, 
oozing out of my boot. Sister Maria screamed out, " Oh, 
look at Nellie ! She's cut her foot with that hatchet." 
"No, no, I haven't," I said, for I was afraid of being pun- 
ished. You see, father had forbidden us little ones ever to 
touch that hatchet. 

Alice {looking shocked) . — Why, you told a right up and 
down — fib. 

Harry {shaking his head) . — A real whopper. 

Aunt Ellen. — So I did, children, and before my story- 
is done, you shall see what misery my sin caused me. 

Gladys. — Did Mr. 'Gustus Allen know about it? 

Aunt Ellen {looking very self-conscioiis and blushing). 
— I guess not. He lived ever so far off then. 

Gladys. — Oh, dear. I wish he hadn't gone to the wars. 
How it made you cry ! 

Alice. — Hush up, please, can't you, Gladys? Aunt 
Ellen is telling a story. 

Aunt Ellen. — Well, they sent for the doctor in great haste, 
and then tried to pull off my boot ; but my foot was so badly 
swollen and bleeding so fast, that it took a great while. I 
can't tell how long, for I fainted. It was ever so long 
before I could walk a step. Every time anybody spoke of 
my hurt, I said, " Why, I was just coming into the house 
with those clams, and my foot slipped and I fell and hit 
me on something. I don't know whether it was a hatchet 
or a stick of wood ; but I never touched the hatchet ! " 

Ida. — There, I shouldn't have thought thatonw/, auntie. 

Harry. — Poh ! they must have known you was a-foolin' ; 
of course they did. 

Aunt Ellen. — Well, I knew nobody believed me. The 
hatchet had been found red with blood, and mother looked, 



16 AIM' ELLEN'S HATCHET. 

O, so sad ! but I had told that falsehood so many times 
that it did seem as if 1 hadn't any courage left to tell the 
truth. It had grown to be verj easy to keep saying, " 1 
never touched the hatchet." 

Alice {whispering to Ida), — Makes me think of that 
play. " My father's lost his hatchet." 

Aim Ellen. — Every one tried to amuse me while I was 
sick, but there was always a thorn in my pillow. 

Gladys.— A thorn? 

AUNT ELLEN. Nut a real thorn, dear. 1 mean I had told a 
wrong story, and 1 couldn't feel happy. (Here Alice turns 
away her head and looks Jar away). I got well, only 1 
limped a little. Then it was almost time to think of making 
presents for the Christmas tree. I didn't like to have 
Christmas come while I was feeling so. 1 talked it over 
with myself a great while though, and at last I said. " 1 
will; I'll do it." First, I asked God to forgive me and 
help me. Then I went into the parlor where your grand- 
father was he wasn't deaf then. I thought I should choke. 
1 taught hold of one of the buttons on his coat, and spoke 
as fast as I could. "0 lather, I've told more than a 
hundred thousand lies. I did take that hatchet ! Will 
you forgive me? 

Alh e. — Did he? 

Aim Ellen. — Forgive! [ guess he did I My dear child, 
u was just what he had been waiting to ^^. Oh, and the way 

he talked to me about lying, 1 shall never, never forget if 

1 live- to be a hundred years old. 1 believe that's about all 
the story there is to it, children. 

[da.— Well, I'm much obliged to you, auntie j I think 

it's just as nice as a fairy story— don't you, Alice? 

Alh i {lodkitig Confused) , I don't know, I'm sure.- 
here, auntie, I've lost your gold ring! 



AUNT ELLENS HATCHET. 1 7 

Aunt Ellen. — My ring? I forgot that I let you take it. 

Alice. — Don't you know I asked you for it when you 
stood by the table making bread? And it slipped off my 
finger this afternoon into the water barrel ! 

Aunt Ellen. — Why, Alice ! 

Alice. — And I was a coward, and didn't dare to tell you, 
auntie. Sometime when you asked for it, I was going to 
say, " Hadn't you better take a pair of tongs and see if it 
isn't in the water-barrel? 

Aunt Ellen. — Oh, Alice ! 

Ida. — She isn't any worse than me, auntie. Ma asked 
me how the mud came on my handkerchief, and I said 
Gladys wiped my boots with it. And so she did, auntie, 
but I told her to. And wasn't I such a coward for laying 
it off on little Gladys ? 

Aunt Ellen. I am glad you have told me the whole 
truth now, though it does make me feel sad, too, for it's too 
much like my hatchet story. Oh, do remember from this 
time, children, and never, never dare be cowards again. 
(She rises.') Come children, it's time for pleasant dreams 
now, and kisses all round. {They go out.) 



THE NEW BABY. 



i !l\k \» l - 

Small Person, a little girl of seven. 

Annie, another little girl t her Best Friend. 

A Nurse, with a tiny baby or large doll. 

Situation. — Two little girls are walking abroad toward 
dusky when they xee a woman approaching tilth a baby 
in her arms. Tiny arc all eagerness to s* 
follows (his dialogue. 

Enter Smai i. l'l RSON and Awn:. 

Small Person. — There is a lady with a baby, and it looks 
like a new one. 

Awn. It is a new one. She isn't a Square lad}', I 

wonder who she is. 
Small Person {almost in a whisper). — Would she think 

it rude if we spoke to her? 

ANNIE. — Oh, we don't know her. She might think it 

very rode. 
Small Person.— Do you think she would? she looks 

kind. 

a . Let us walk past her. 

/ . with baby in her arms; the chi 

looking u/> into her face, and she smiles at them. 

.11 {>::/.■ (her). — Let's ask her. You do it 

iS 



THE NEW BABY. 



19 



Small Person/ — No, you. 

Annie. — I daren't. 

Small Person. — I daren't, either. 

Annie. — Oh, do. It's a perfectly new one. 

Small Person. — Oh, you do it. See how nice she looks. 
(The Nurse has turned back and they all meet again.) 
If you please, isn't that a new baby? 

Nurse. — Yes, do you want to look at it ? 

Both. — Oh, yes, please. We do love them so. 

Nurse (she stoops down, turns the white lace veil back 
and shows the face). — There. 

Small Person. — Oh, isn't it a beautiful one ! 

Annie. — Is it a very new one? 

Nurse. — Yes, very new. 

Small Person. — How new? 

Nurse. — Only a month. Are you so very fond of babies ? 

Annie. — We love them better than anything in the world. 

Nurse. — Better than dolls? 

Small Person. — Oh, thousands better ! 

Nurse. — But dolls don't cry. 

Small Person. — If I had a baby, it wouldn't cry, because 
I should take such care of it. 

Nurse. — Would you like a baby of your own? 

Small Person. — I would give worlds and worlds for one ! 

Nurse. — Would you like me to give you this one? 

Small Person (breathlessly) . — Give it to me? Oh, you 
couldn't. 

Nurse. — I think I could if you would be sure to take 
care of it. 

Small Person. — Oh, oh ! but its mamma wouldn't let 
you. 

Nurse (reflectively). — Yes, I think she would. You see, 
she has enough of them. 



2 THE NEW BABY. 

Small Person {gasping with incredulity), — Ah! you 

— you're making fun of me. 

N rse. — No, I am not at all. They are very tiresome 
\vh<. * there are a great many of them. What would you 
do with this one if I gave it to you? 

Small Person [eagerly), — I would wash it every morning. 
I would wash it in a little bath, and with a big soft sponge 
and Windsor soap — and I would puff it all over with powder 
— and dress it and undress it — and put it to sleep, and 
walk it about the room — and trot it on my knees — and give 
it milk. 

Nurse [seriously), — It takes a great deal of milk. 

Small Person. — 1 would ask Mamma to let me take it 
from the milkman. I'm sure she would, I would give it as 
much as it wanted, and it would sleep with me, and I 
would buy it a rattle, and — 

Nurse. — I see you know how to take care of it. You 
shall have it. 

Small Person [fearfully), — But how can its mamma 
spare it? Are you sure she could spare it:* 

Nurse. — Oh, yes, she can spare it. Of course I must 
take it back to her to-night and tell her you want it, and I 
have promised it to you ; but to-morrow evening you can 
have it. 

Small Person. — Oh, really, can 1? 

Nurse. — Yes. Goodby. {She goes out.) 

Small Person. — Goodby. Oh, .Annie, won't we have a 
nice time with a new baby? Come home and tell Mamma 
all about it. [They go out.) 



THE UNBURIED WOMAN. ...'' 



CHARACTERS. 

Mr. Bright, a cheerful old gentleman 

Mrs. Pokabout, Mrs., Talket, Mrs. Goround, three old ladies, 
full of curiosity, and dressed in old-fashioned costumes. 

Situation. — Mrs. Pokabout a?id Mrs. Talket are hunting 
for news when they meet Mr. Bright. He tells them 
about a woman who is denied burial, and then he 
hurries away. After a while he returns to clear up 
the mystery and laugh at the gossipers. 

Little folks should dress up and play these old folks. 
The old women are looking about all the time to find 
something wrong. The scene is on a street-corner and 
so very little is needed to decorate the platform. 

Mrs. Pokabout and Mrs. Talket enter fro m one side. Mr. 
Bright enters fro ?n the other side. They meet. 

Mrs. Pokabout. — Have you heard any news, Mrs Talket? 

Mrs. Talket. — News? no, I am dying to hear some. I 
haven't heard a word since last night, and here it is noon. 

Mr. Bright. — I heard something as I came along, and 
you wouldn't believe it, though I received it from a person 
who tells the truth and knew the fact, and so he couldn't 
make a mistake. 

Mrs. Talket. — Oh, tell it to us. I hope it is somebody run 
away. 

21 



22 



llll. UNBURN D WOMAN. 



Mrs. Pokabout.— I hope it is a murder or a suicide. 

We haven't had any good news these two months. 

Mi. BRIGHT.— It is neither one. There is a woman 
down in the village and they will not let her be buried. 
w^. Mrs. TaLKET. — You don't say so ! 

Mr. BRIGHT.— I do. They positively refuse to bury her. 

Mrs. POKABOUT.— Do tell ! What could the poor < • 
ture have done to be denied burial ? 

Mr. BRIGHT. — I do not know what the trouble was, but they 
say the coroner has his reasons, and buried she shall not be. 

Mrs. Pokabout.— Where is she lying? I must go and 
inquire into it. Bless me, Mrs. Talket, how could this hap- 
pen and we not hear of it? 

Mrs. Talket.— Did you hear her name, Mr. bright? 
that may give us a clue. 

M,, BRIGHT.— I did not learn her name, though, if I for- 
get not, it began with a G, or some such letter, but 1 

have a little errand up the street, and must leave you. In 
the meantime, as we know so little, it will be wise not to 
repeat what I have told you. Good morning. {He 
out.) 

Mrs. Pokabout.— Did you ever hear of anything 
strange? One of two things is certain, she has either killed 
herself or been killed, and is kept for examination. 

Mrs. TALKET.— I don't understand it so. Mr. bright 
seemed to .say that she had been lying a long tune, and 

was not to be buried at all. But here comes Mrs. Goround, 

and perhaps she can tell us all about it, as she comes 
from the village. 

Mrs. Goround enters, 
Mrs-. Pokabout. — Good morning, Mrs. Goround. 



THE UNBURIED WOMAN. 23 

Mrs. Goround. — Good-morning, Mrs. Pokabout. How 
do you do, Mrs. Talket? 

Mrs. Talket. — Pretty well, I thank you. How do you do? 

Mrs. Goround. — Not very well, I'm much obliged to 
you. I've had a touch of hydrophoby, I believe they call 
it, or something else. 

Mrs. Pokabout. {to Mrs. Talket). — Nothing new. She 
always hated cold water. {Aloud.) How did the dreadful 
disease affect you, Mrs. Goround ! What dog bit you ? 

Mrs. Goround. — Dog! What do you mean by a dog? 
The disease began with a cold in my head, and a sore 
throat and — 

Mrs. Talket. — Oh, it was the influenza. 

Mrs. Goround. — So it was. I knew it was some out- 
landish name, and they all sound alike to me. I wish 
there was no foreign words. 

Mrs. Pokabout. — Mrs. Goround, did you hear the dread- 
ful news in the village ? 

Mrs. GoroundI— No. What dreadful news ? I have not 
heard nothing, good or bad. 

Mrs. Pokabout. — What ! haven't you heard of the wom- 
an in the village that they won't bury? 

Mrs. Goround.— Not a word. Who is she? What's her 
name ? 

Mrs. Talket. — Her name begins with G., and as that be- 
gins your name, I hoped you would know something about it. 

Mrs. Goround. — Bless me \ I never heard a syllable 
of it! Why don't they bury the poor thing? I couldn't 
refuse to bury even a dog. 

Mrs. Pokabout. — There is a suspicion of murder or sui- 
cide in the case. 

Mrs. Goround. — Well, they hang murderers and suicides, 
don't they? What can be the matter ? There is something 
very strange about it. 



24 l HI UNBURN D Wl I 

Mrs. Talket. — I am dying to know all about it Come, 
let's all go down to the village, and find out. 1 love to get 
hold of a mystery. 

MRS. POKABCH i. — ] say, let us all go, and here IS Mr. 

.t coming back. He will go with us. tor he told US the 
news and he is dying to learn the particulars. 

Mr. Bright comes in again, 

Mr. BRIGHT.— Good morning again, ladies. 

A i i .. — (iood morning. 

Mrs. GOROUND. — What was the matter with that-tfl> 
woman that they won't bury in the village. 

Mr. BRIGHT. — Nothing is the matter with her. 

Mrs. GOROUND. — Then in marcy's name, why don't they 
bury her? 

Mr. Bright. — I know only one reason, but that i> a \ 
good one. 

Mrs. Pokabout. — We uid not know you knew the reason 

they wouldn't bury her. Why didn't you tell us what it 

Mr. BRIGHT. — You did not ask me, and besides it ISSOme- 

what oi a se< ret. 

Mrs. Talket. — You nerd not fear our speaking of it 

I lurry and tell us. 

Mrs. Pokaboi r. Yes, yes. [ am bursting with curio; 

Mrs. i iOROi nd. And 1 too, Mr. Bright ; you sa) there is 
but one reason why thej do not bury the woman, and now 
what is that? ( He looks about with a smile,) 

Mrs. Pokaboi r. — What is it? 

M, -. I'm ri i. Yes, what is it? 

Am. (earnestly). — What is it? 

M . Bright, (going out). She is not dead ! 

Air (rushing after him) , — You horrid 



PLAYING "HOOKEY." 



CHARACTERS. 



Horace, a small boy, with two fishing poles. 

Prudy, a smaller girl, with a tin dipper. 

A Voice within. 

Situation. — -Prudy has gone out to pick currants. She 
suddenly sees her cousin Horace, who has come from 
the West to spend a year. He is on the other side of 
the bushes and he persuades her to go down to the river 
to fish. Afterward his conscience troubles him for 
playing truant ; Prudy geh no bites. Just then her 
aunfs voice calls and they hurry away home. 

A row of currant bushes extend down one side of the 
platform with only one small opening. Various devices 
may be used to secure this effect, a row of plants, a set 
of real currant bushes, even a fence. The river is sup- 
posed to run along in front of the platform which fornis 
the bank of the stream. There should be some means 
of propping up Prudy's pole for her, and some rock for 
her to sit on. 

Enter Prudy, with a tin dipper to pick currants in, and 
Horace with fishing-rods, on opposite sides of the 
platfoi'7ii and of the row of currant bushes, 

Prudy. — I thought you was to school ! 

25 



26 l-l ,\N IN', " HOOKEY." 

Horace (pulling his hat over his eyes with shame), — 
Well, I ain't. The teacher don't keep no order, and I 
won't go to such a school, so there ! 

PRUDY. — They don't want me to go, 'cause I should know 
too much. I can say all my letters now, right down straight, 

'thout looking on, either. 
Horace. — Oh, ho ! yen can't say 'em skipping about, and 

I shouldn't care it" 1 was \ou. But you ought to know how 
to fish, Miss. Don't you wish you could drop in your line, 
and catch 'em the way 1 do? 

Frioy {dropping her dipper and looking through plants). 
— Do they like to have you catch 'cm ; don't it hurt? 

Horace. — Hurt? Not as I know of. They needn't bite 
if they don't want to. 

PRUDY {looking wise). — No, 1 s'pose they want to get 
out, and that's why they bite. Of course, when fishes stay 
in the water much it makes 'em drown. 

Horace {laughing). — Oh, my stars! you ought to live 
"out west," you're such a cunning little spud. Come, 
now, here's another fish-pole for you. I'll show you how 
to catch one, and I'll bet 't will be a polywog you're just 
big enough. 

PRUDY. — But grandma didn't say 1 might go down to 
the river. Wait till I go ask her. (She starts hath.) 

Horace. — Poh! no, you needn't \ I have to hurry. Grand- 
ma always likes it when you go with me, Trudy, because 
yOU see I'm a boy. and she knows 1 can take < art oi you 
twice as well as ( irac e and Susy can. 

Prudy (clapping her hands). — oh, they won't any of 

'(in know I can fish, and how they'll laugh. How'll I get 

over thei 

Horace.— Give us your bonnet, and then you "scooch" 

down, and I'll pull you through. (She lies down flat on 



PLAYING "HOOKEY." 27 

the floor and stretches out her hands. He grabs them and 
pulls her through between two bushes.) There, now, I've 
been and put a bait on the end of your hook, and I plump 
it. in the water — so (he throws the line over the edge of the 
platform) . You just hold on to the pole. 

Prudy. — But it jiggles — it tips me. (She falls down.) 

Horace. — Well, that's smart ! (He picks her up.) There 
you sit down next time, and I'll prop up the pole with a 
rock — this way. (He props up the pole with two rocks.) 
There, now, you hold it a little easy, and when you feel a 
nibble you let me know. 

Prudy (shaking the line). — What's a nibble? 

Horace. — A nibble? Why, it's a bite. (They sit very 
quiet for some time.) 

Prudy. — Now, now ! I've got a nibble ! (Horace springs 
up to catch her line) . I feel it right here on my neck ; I 
s'pose it's a fly. 

Horace, (going back to his own line). — Now look here, 
you're a little too bad. You made me drop my line just 
when I was going to have a nibble. Wait till you feel the 
string wiggle, and then speak, but don't scream. (7 hey 
sit still a while longer.) 

Prudy (with a groan) . — Oh, dear ! I never did see 
such fishes. I guess they don't want to be catched. 

Horace. — There, now you've spoke again, and scared one 
away. If it hadn't been for you I should have got I don't 
know how many by this time. (Prudy begins to cry.) Poh ! 
crying about that? You're a nice little girl if you do talk 
too much, so don't you cry. (Prudy dries her eyes and 
looks cheerful again.) I'll tell you what it is, I don't think 
I make much playing " hookey." 

Prudy. — I don't like playing " hookey," neither, 'cause 
the hooks won't catch 'em. 



2 S PLAYING " HOOKEY." 

Horace (laughing).— Oh> you don't know what I mean. 
When we boys - out west " stay out of school, we call that 

playing " hookey." 

Prudy.— Oh, do you? But I want to go home now, if 
.n't catch any nibbles. 

A Voice Within.— Prudy ! Prudy! 

HORACE.— Th'ere, now, there's Aunt Madge calling you. 
You give me your fish-pole. Can you crawl through the 

oushes ? 

Prudy.— I don't know. 1 guess you'll have t<» push 
some. (She scratches through while Horace fustics.) 

HORACC— Now hurrv up but don't you tell her that 1 
lere. I'll go round the other way. (Prudy goes out on 
one side and Horace on the other.) 



HEARSAY. 



CHARACTERS. 

Mr. Roscoe Rankin, a well-dressed man who appears a 
stranger. 

Mr. Runround Gosline, a dapper little man who carries 
gossip. 

Situation. — Mr. Rankin returns home after some weeks of 
absence from the town. Mr. Gosline notices him at 
the railway station and proceeds to gossip with him. 

Mr. Rankin must have a letter on which are written 
the words which Gosline reads ; . nd Gosline should 
have an opera-glass or a telescope. Rankin may have 
all his first speech within quotation marks written on 
the paper. 

Enter Rankin, reading a letter. 

Rankin {reading aloud). — "Edward has been much 
better since he has been living with me, and his cough is 
growing less. I hope our pure mountain air will cure him. 
The little stranger you have never seen reminds me con- 
stantly of her father. What a comfort she is to me ! How 
could I support your absence without her?" Dear, dear 
Emily ! Now that our meeting is at hand, I feel like de- 
laying the great pleasure, as if the mere anticipation were 
a joy too great to be given up ! {Reads to himself.) 

29 



3o 



HI Ak-.W 



Enter Mr. (insi im r«. •//// ///V //<7//^ /// /lis pockets. 

Goslink (//<' looks Rankin all over, then tries / p?/ a 
look at the letter. A side) . — Who can this be, I wonder? 
(Looks dt letter again.) I dfc wish women would not write 
such a tiny little hand. (Heads. ) Most — p-r-e — pre< ious, 

most — beloved." Most precious ! Most beloved! Oh, 

Cupidl How tender! Now. you wouldn't believe it — but 
I never had such things said to me by one of the fair sex I 
(Reads again.) " Edward — has — Edward has — " Perhaps 
I can make it out better with my glass. | He tikes an opera- 
glass from his pocket and looks. Rankin turns round and 
catches hi m.) 

Rankin (folds up letter). — You seem, sir, to be of an in- 
quiring turn of mind. 

GOSLTNE. — Well, sir, if I wasn't, this village, let me tell you, 
would be a pretty slow place, — altogether behind the times. 
You're a stranger in these parts, 1 suspect. 

Rankin. — What makes you think so? 

( i. iSLINE. — Youkind of stared about you, when you got out 
of the cars, as if the country didn't look familiar. 

Rankin. — There have been some changes since 1 was here. 
Do you know a Mrs. Rankin in the village? 

C I()SI .ink.— l'he little lady that lives in the brown cottage 
on the hill over there? 

Rank i\. — The same. 

Cosi .im ..—Well, 1 can't say I visit her, but 1 can tell vou 
all about her. Poor woman ! 

Rankin.— Why do you say that? Js anything the matter 

with her? 

GOSUNE.— She has had a hard time of it. It's enough to 
make one's heart bleed. PoOt young thing! A month 
after her marriage, and just as she had got fixed dure in 
the cottage, her scamp ol a husband ran off to California. 



HEARSAY. 3 1 

Rankin. — Scamp of a husband ! Ran off ! {Indignant.) 
What do you mean, sir? {Checking himself.) Excuse 
me. What did he run off for ? 

Gosline. — For robbing a bank. What do you think of 
that? 

Rankin. — For robbing a bank? 

Gosline. — So they say. 

Rankin. — Who say? 
. Gosline. — They say, 

Rankin. — Who are They ? 

Gosline. — Everybody says. People say. The world gen- 
erally say. The whole village say. 

Rankin. — Can you name a single person, besides yourself, 
who says it? 

Gosline. — Really so many people say it, that I cannot 
think of any one in particular. 

Rankin. — Perhaps I will quicken your memory by and by. 
And how does Mrs. Rankin bear her afflictions? 

Gosline. — She's on the point of being married again. 
So they say. 

Rankin. — Indeed ! To whom ? 

Gosline. — To a Mr. Edward Edwards. So they say. 

Rankin {aside). — Her own brother! {Aloud.) Are 
you sure of this? 

Gosline. — Oh, yes ! He has been residing in the house 
with her. They take romantic walks together. They read 
Tennyson together. The wedding is to take place imme- 
diately. So they say. 

Rankin.— Who say? 

Gosline. — Well, I told you ! They say. What would 
you have more? 

Rankin.— Who are they ? 

Gosline. — How should I know? You are the most un- 



32 HEARSAY. 

reasonable man I ever met With. I say they say, and you 
ask me who say. As if I could say anything else ! 

Rankin {he becomes angry and approaches Gosline . 
retreats. Thus they go all round the platform) . — Did Tkey 
Say, ever say that you were a meddling, prying, gossiping, 
impertinent, mischievous, unscrupulous, malicious retailer 
of absurd slanders? 

( i< isi.ink. — What do you mean, sir, by such language ? I'll 
have you arrested. 1 .awyer 1 )oolittle is my particular friend. 
If there was only a witness here, sir, I'd make you pay for 
this outrage. Keep your hands off, sir ! (//e sees some- 
one approaching.) No matter, sir; kick me — kick me! 
I see a witness yonder. I'll have you arrested for assault 
and battery. Kick me, if you like. 

, Rankin. — I shall not indulge you so far. But take warn- 
ing, sir, how you quote -Mr. They Say for your scandalous 
reports. Old They Say is a liar and a coward. 

( ii »i.ink. — That's libellous, sir. You are libelling the whole 
village when you say that. I wish I knew your name. 

Rankin. — You shall know it. My name is Rankin, and 
that cottage on the hill, there, is mine. 

Gosline. — Wheugh ! You Mr, Rankin? 

Rankin. — The same. 

( '.. si ini . I >idn't you once rob a bank? 

Rankin. — \ once picked a rose from a bank in a friend's 
garden, and another friend playfully said that he had (aught 
me robbing a bank. Some stupid nun heard him say it. 
and may have repeated it. This is all there is to your S1 

Gosline. — But isn't your wife going to be married. 

Doesn't she walk out every day with a young man? lla ! 
Do I speak too rudely of your home-ties? 

Rankin. — That young man is her poor, consumptive 
brother, who has come here for change of air. Let me 



HEARSAY. 33 

advise you, friend They Say, to look out another time ; or 
the consequences will be unpleasant. 

Gosline. — What consequences, sir? 

Rankin. — Why, sir, the price of cowhides, in this village, 
will go suddenly up. {He goes ont.y 

Gosline. — Now, isn't it provoking hat such a nice bit of 
gossip should be spoiled? No matter ! There is a report 
that the Rev. Air. Poor has been seen playing at ninepins. 
He does it for his health, he says. Ha, ha, ha ! For his 
health, indeed ! I'll make a nice stir-up in his congrega- 
tion about this. We'll have a meeting of the parish {rub- 
bing his hands), — perhaps a council of ministers, — and 
there'll be a precious tempest at every tea-table in the vil- 
lage. Ha, ha ! I see sport ahead — sport — sport ! (He 
goes out.) 

3 



TIRED OF CHURCH. 

CHARACI ERS. 

Mrs. Harmon, a rather young woman dressed for church. 

Willie Harmon, her small son in his best clothes. 

Situation.— Mrs. Harmon has taken her young son to 
church after a Strong injunction not to talk while he is 
there. He cannot resist the temptation to ask questions. 
She has finally to take him home. 

Some rows of seats or some be nclies may be placed 
on the platform to represent the pews in the church and 
the aisle. There may be some music by the choir or 
quartette while they come in and take their seat 
the curtain may be thrown back and reveal them al- 
ready seated. 

Mrs. Harmon and Wn i n: come in respectfully and take 
seats in their pew, while the organ plays or the choir 
sings, 

\\ ii. UK (after looking round a moment in silence). — 
Mamma, what kind of flowers has that lady got in her 
bonnet? 

Mrs. Harmon. — You mustn't talk so loud, dear, you'll 
disturb the congregation. 

Willie. — They look like Johnnie jurap-ups, don't they ? 

Mrs. Harmon. — Hush, dear. Listen to the sonion. 

34 



TIRED OF CHURCH. 35 

Willie {after a long silence). — Are they real flowers, 
mamma, or only make believe? 

Mrs. Harmon. — They are artificial, Willie^ Be a good 
boy, now, and don't talk any more. 

Willie. — Yes'm. (A very long pause) . Mamma ! 

Mrs. Harmon.— 'Sh, Willie ! What is it? 

Willie. — When Johnnie-jump-ups are growed up, do they 
get to be jumpin-jacks? 

Mrs. Harmon {with a struggle to keep from smiling) . — 
Oh, no, dear. 

Willie. — Why not? 

Mrs. Harmon. — There, dear. Listen to the sermon. 

Willie. — What do they get to be? 

Mrs. Harmon {with a look of despair). — They don't 
get to be anything. They stay just what they are. 

Willie {after another silence) . — Mamma, the preacher 
said " thudly." How many morelys will he 

Mrs. Harmon. — 'Sh, Willie ! 

Willie. — Yes'm, but I'm getting awfully tired. 

Mrs. Harmon. — It will only last a little while longer, dear. 
Be quiet. 

Willie. — Yes'm. {A pause.) Mamma, can a woman be 
real, real good if she wears a stuffed humming-bird on her 
bonnet? 

Mrs. Harmon. — Willie, if you don't hush I shall have to 
punish you. 

Willie. — Right here? 

Mrs. Harmon. — No; after we get home. 'Sh ! 

Willie {after a thoughtful pause) . — Mamma, seems to 
me that I've been 'sh-ing a mighty long time ! How much 
longer is he going to 

Mrs. Harmon {with determination). — Willie, if you say 
another word I'll take you right out of church. 



36 TIRED OF CHURCH. 

WlLLIE (his face lights up). — 1 won't say another word, 
mamma, but I'm getting jus horrid tired, and I don't see 
how I can set still another minute, and I wish he'd quit 
talkin' — ain't you tired 'most to death — how much longer is 
he going to keep on — what's the use of bringing me here, 
anyhow — (His mother takes him down from his seat and 
marches him out oj church. JIc looks hack with a tri- 
umphant smile). 



THE INKSTAND. 



CHARACTERS. 

Dollie, a very little girl. 

Amy, Minnie, two larger girls with aprons on. 

Robbie, a small boy. 

Aunt Anna, an irritable woman of middle age. 

Aunt Martha, a woman of same age with micslin cap on 
and a white apron. 

Bridget, a servant of Aunt Martha, with sleeves rolled up 
and apron on. • 

Situation. — Aunt Anna has brought over the girls to spend 
the day with their Aunt Martha. Robbie has been 
deputed to show them over the house and has at last 
reached Bridget's room. Dollie finds an inkstand 
which Robbie auctions off to the highest bidder. The 
ink is spilled on Minnie's apron and Dollie is sent after 
milk to take the stain off. She unwittingly reports the 
whole disaster and the children are summarily taken 
home. 

The first scene is in Bridget's chamber, which con- 
tains a washsland, bureau, chairs and table. The 
second scene is in the kitchen or dining-room where 
dinner is preparing. There is a table partially set for 
dinner, with cloth and dishes on it. The inkstand may 
be empty or filled with water. 

Scene I. 

Robbie enters, followed by Amy, Minnie and Dollie. 
Robbie. — This is Bridget's room. 

37 



38 THE INKSTAND. 

Amy. — Well, I'm dreadful tired. 

MINNIE. — So am I. I'm going to sit down a minute. 
(All sit but Doltie who goes to t/:r bureau and opens a 
drawer.) 

Amy. — Look here, Dolly Dinsmore, you mustn't open 
that drawer. 

Dm. 1. if. [putting in both hands). — Who owns it? 

Amy. — Why, Bridget does, of course. 

Doli.ik. — No, she doesn't. God owns this drawer, and 
he's willing I should look into it as long as I'm a mind to. 

Amy. — Well, I'll tell Aunt Anna, you see if I don't. 
That's the way little paddy girls act that steal things. 

DOLUE. — I ain't a stealer. Now, Amy Rexford, 1 saw vou 
once, and you was a nippin' cream out of the cream-pot. 
You're a paddy ! — Oh, here's a inkstand J 

Minnik. — Put it right back, and come away. 

BLOBBIE {seising it from Iter hand). — Let me take it. 
I'm going to put it up ;it auction. I'm Mr. Nelson, riding 
horseback, {/le jumps up on a stand.) I'm ringin' a bell. 
" O yes ! O yes ! O yes ! Auction at two o'clock ! Who'll 
buy my fine fresh ink? " 

Amy. — Please give it to me, it isn't yours. 

I\<>im;i|... — Fresh ink, red as a lobsh 

Amy. — This minute ! 

ROBBIE, — Asgreenasa pea ! Who'll bid ? doing! Going! 

Minnik {climbing into a eJiair and reaching after it). 
— Now, do give it to me, Robbie. Vou ain't fair a bit. 

Robbie. — Do you say you bid a bit ? That's ninepence, 
ma'am. It's yours ; going, gone for a ninepence, knocked 
off to Miss Dinsmore. (As Robbie hands it to Minnie, she 
grabs at it and spills the ink over her apron.) 

Minnie. — Oh, dear, how dreadful ! 

Robbie (he has climbed down hastily). — Don't tell that 



THE INKSTAND. 39 

I did it, you know I didn't mean any harm. Won't you 
promise me not to tell? 

Minnie. — Yes, I will — O dear, Q dear ! What is to be 
done? 

Amy. — Come here quick. {She pulls her to the wash- 
stand. Dollie thinks Amy is going to put Minnie into the 
wash bowl and tries to lift her up) . 

Minnie {catching at a piece of soap) . — I guess this honey 
soap will take it out. {They scrub hard at the apron.) 

Amy. — Stop a minute ! Soap makes it worse— ma puts 
on milk. 

Minnie. — O dear ! I wish we had some. How can we 
get it ? 

Amy. — I'll tell you what we'll do; we'll send Dollie 
down-stairs to Bridget, to ask for some milk to drink. 

Dollie. — I like milk and water the best— with sugar in. 

Amy. — Well, get that, its just as good ; and come right 
back with it, and don't tell about the ink. {Dollie goes 
out.) 

CURTAIN. 

Scene II. 

The kitchen or dining-room. 

Aunt Martha and Bridget are getting dinner ready. 
Dollie enters. 

Dollie. — Oh, Bridget, may I have some white tea? 

Bridget. — White tay / and what may that be now ? 

Dollie. — Oh, some white tea in a cup, you know, with 
sugar. They let me have it every little once in a while. 

Aunt Martha. — Milk and water, I suppose. Can't you 
wait till dinner, my dear? 

Dollie. — But the girls can't wait ; they want it now. 



40 THE INKSTAND. 

Aim Martha. — Oh, it's for the girls, is it? 

Dolue.— Yes, but when they've trashed the apron I can 

drink the rest— with white sugar in. 

Aim MARTHA.— The apron ! What apron? 

Ai \ i Anna enters at rear. 

DoujE.—Oh, nothing but Minnie's, I told grandma I'd be 
good, and I did be good ; it was n't me spilled the ink. 

Aunt Martha ( stopping her work ) .—Ink spilled ? 

Doljje {beginning to tremble), . — Oh, I ain't goin' to tell ! 
1 didn't, did I? They won't 'low me to tell. 

Aun i Anna (stepping to the door) .— Children, come down 
here this instant. What have you been doing? 

Enter Amy and Minnie with crestfallen faces. 

Oh, Minnie Dinsmore, you naughty, naughty child, what 
have you been into? Who spilled that ink? 

Minnie {frightened) . — It got tipped over. 

Aim ANNA.— Of course, it got tipped over— but not 
without hands, you careless girl ! Do you get your shaker, 
and inarch home as quick as ever you can ! I must go with 
you, I suppose. 

Amy.— Oh, Auntie, she wasn't to blame. It 

Ai m Anna {briskly) .—Don't say a word. If she was my 
little girl I'd have her sent to bed. That dress and apron 
ought to be s«»akmg this very minute. (She marches the 
children all off, followed by Aunt Martha.) 

Bridget.— It's not much like the child's mother she is. 

A mother can pass it by when the childers does such 
capers, and wait till they git more sinse. (She goes out the 

other side.) 



THE SWORD. 



CHARACTERS. 

Lord Carlton, a kind and polite gentleman. 

Augustus, his son, haughty and overbearing. 

Henrietta, his daughter, gentle and shrewd. 

Frank Raynton, William Raynton, Edward Dudley, 
Charles Dudley, manly and independent boys, friends 
to Augustus. 

James, a servant to Lord Carlton. 

Situation. — Augustus has a birthday. His father presents 
him with a sword, which his sister takes to put a ribbon 
on it. Before she returns it, Lord Carlton,/^ r//?^ that 
the weapon may prove dangerous in the hands of his 
impertinent son, substitutes a turkey's feather for the 
blade. The confusion of the boy is complete. The 
sword is given to another. 

Both scenes of this dialogue take place in the play- 
room of Augustus. Co?isiderable ingenuity may be 
shown in fitting this room as a parent of taste and 
wealth would be likely to furnish it. There should be 
a table on which Henrietta may place the dish of cakes. 

4i 



42 THE SWORD. 

Scene I. 

The apartment of An U IS] I IS. /:'//A v Art RJS i us, :c/7// </ 
haughty strut. 

Augustus. — Aha ! this is my birthday ! They did well 
to tell me for I should never have thought of it. I shall 
have some new present from papa. Let's see, what will he 
give me? James had something under his coat when he 
went into papa's room. He would not let me go in with 
him. Ah ! If I did not have to act grown up. I'd have 
made him show me what he was carrying. — J Jut now I shall 
know. Here comes papa. 

Lord Carlton eomes in, holding in his hand a tWdrd and 

belt. 

Lord Carlton. — Ah ! there you are, Augustus I I have 
already wished you joy on your birthday ; but that is not 
enough, is it? 

Augustus. — Oh ! papa — but what is that in your hand, 
there ? 

LORD Cxki.ton. — Something that I fear will not become 
you well. A sword — look ! ( Hi holds it out. ) 

Augustus. — What I is it for me? Oh I give it to me, 
dear papa; I will be so good and study all the time. 

Lokh CAM i"\. — Ah! if 1 only thought that ! Hut do you 
know a sword calls for a man? Whoever wears a sword, 
must be no longer a child, but should be respectful and 
Well-behaved. It is not the sword that adorns the man. but 
the man who adorns the sword. 

AUGUSTUS. — Oh I never fear me. 1 shall adorn mine. I 
promise; and I won't speak to thoM mean persons 

Lord Carlton.— Whom do you call those mean persons? 
Augustus. — I mean those who cannot wear a sword— those 

who are not nobles, as you and I are. 



THE SWORD. 43 

Lord Carlton. — For my part, I know no mean persons but 
those who have a wrong way of thinking, and a worse way 
of behaving; who are disobedient to their parents — rude 
and unmannerly to Others ; so that I see many mean per- 
sons among the nobility, and many noble among those 
whom you call mean. 

Augustus. — Yes, that's what I think. 

Lord Carlton. — What were you saying, then, just now, of 
wearing a sword ? It is necessary that ranks should be distin- 
guished in the world. But the most elevated rank only 
adds more disgrace to the man unworthy to fill it. 

Augustus. — But, papa, it will be no disgrace to me to 
have a sword, and to wear it. 

Lord Carlton.— No. I mean for you to render yourself 
worthy of this distinction by your good behavior. Here is 
your sword, but remember. {He hands him the sword.') 

Augustus.— Oh ! yes, papa. You shall see ! [He en- 
deavors to put the sword by his side, but cannot. Lord 
Carlton helps him to buckle it on.) 

Lord Carlton. — Eh ! why, it does not look bad. 

Augustus. — Oh ! I knew. 

Lord Carlton. — It becomes you surprisingly. But above 
all things, remember what I told you. Good-bye ! ( Going, 
he returns.) I had forgot ; I have just sent for a little 
party of your friends, to spend the day with you. Behave 
yourself suitably. {He goes out.) 

Augustus. — Yes, papa. {He struts up and down the room, 
and now and then looks back to see if his sword is behind 
him.) This is fine ! This is like a gentleman ! Let any 
of your citizens come in my way now. No more familiarity, 
if they do not wear a sword ; and if they don't like it, out 
with my rapier. But let us see if it has a good blade. 
{Drawing his sword and using ficrious gestures.) What ! 



44 TH1 SWORD. 

does that man mean to affront me? One — two ! Ah ! 
you defend yourself, do you? Die, scoundrel ! 

Enter Henrietta. 

Henrietta {who screams on hearing the last words), — 
Rless me ! Augustus, are you mad? 

Art.rsrus. — Is it you, sister? 

Henrietta. — Yes, don't you see? But what are you 
doing with that thing? (Pointing to the sword.) 

An, i STUS. — Doing with it? what a gentleman should do. 

Henrietta. — And whom are you going to send out of the 
world? 

AUGUSTUS. — Whoever dares insult me. 

Henrietta. — And if I should happen to be the person 

AUGUSTUS. — You ! I warn you. I wear a sword now, 
you see. Papa made me a present of it. 

Henrietta. — I suppose to go and kill people, right or 
wrong. 

AUGUSTUS. — Am not I the honorable? If they do not 
give me the respect due, smack, a box on the ear. And if 
your little commoner will be impertinent — sword in hand 
■ — ( Going to draw it.) 

I [enrietta. — Oh ! leave it in quiet, brother. What is the 
respect that you demand? 

\ GUSTus. — You shall soon see. My father has just sent 
for some young fellows. If those little puppies do not 
behave themselves respectfully, you shall see how I will 

man L| 

Hi NRIETTA. — Very well ; but what must uv iU\ to beha\ e 
ourselves respectfully toward you? 

Aiv.ivn s. -In the first place, I insist upon a low bow — 
very low. 

Henrietta (with great seriousness making him </ 



THE SWORD. 45 

courtesy) . — Your lordship's most humble servant. Was that 
well? 

Augustus. — No joking, Henrietta, or else 

Henrietta. — Nay, I am quite serious, I assure you. We 
ought to inform your little friends, too. 

Augustus. — Oh ! I will have some sport with those fellows ; 
give one a pull, another a pinch, and play all sorts of tricks 
on them. 

Henrietta. — But if those fellows should not like the sport, 
and return it on the gentleman's ears 

Augustus. — What ! low, vulgar blood ? No ; they have 
neither hearts nor swords. 

Henrietta {with sarcasm). — Really, papa saw plainly 
what a hero was concealed in the person of his son, but do 
you know too, that there is one principal ornament to your 
sword wanting? 

Augustus. — What is that ? ( Unbuckles the belt and looks 
all over the sword.) I do not see that there is the least 
thing wanting. 

Henrietta. — Really, you are a very clever swordsman. 
But a sword-knot now ! Ah ! how a blue and silver knot 
would dangle from that belt ! 

Augustus. — You are right, Henrietta. Quick, a hand- 
some knot ! when my little party comes, they shall see me 
in all my grandeur. 

Henrietta.- — Give it to me, then. 

Augustus {giving her the sword) . — There, make haste ! 
You will leave it in my room, on the table, so I may find it 
when I want it. 

Henrietta. — Depend on me. 

Enter James. 
James. — The two Master Dudleys and the Master Rayn- 
tons are below. 



46 THE SWORD. 

AUGUSTUS. — Well ! cannot they come up? 

James. — My lady ordered me to tell you to come and 
meet them. 

Augustus. — Xo, no — it is better to wait for them here. 

HENRIETTA, — If mamma wants you to go down 

AUGUSTUS. — Well, I shall go right away. Come, what are 
you doing? Go, hurry, and let me find it on my table. 
Do you hear? {Augustus and fames go out.) 

Henrietta. — The little insolent! Luckily, I have the 
sword. My papa does not know you go well as I do. But 
I'll tell him — ah ! here he is. 

Enter Lord CARLTON. 

Henrietta. — You are come just in time, papa. I was 
going to you. 

Lord Carlton. — What is there, then, of so much con- 
sequence, to tell me? — But what are you doing with your 
brother's sword? 

Henrietta. — I have promised to put a handsome knot 
on it; but it was only to get it out ot" his hands. Do not 
give it to him again, whatever you do. 

Lord Carlton. — Why should I take back a present I 
have given him? 

I h mri] i i \. — At least keep it until he becomes more peace- 
able. I just now found him all alone, la\iug about him like 
Doll Quixote, and threatening to make his first trial of 
fen< ing on his « ompanions that come to see him. 

1 QRD CARLTON. — The little quarreler ! If he will use it 
for his first exploits, they shall not turn out to his honor, I 
promise you. Give me the sword. 

Hf.xrif.i i \ (giving him the sword). — There, sir, I hear 
him on the stairs. 

Lord CARLTON. — Run, make his knot, and bring it to 
me when it is ready. {They go out.) 



THE SWORD. 47 

Scene II. 

Enter Augustus, with his hat on. Then follow with un- 
covered heads, Edward and Charles Dudley, Frank 
and William Raynton. 

Edward {aside to Frank) . — This is a very polite recep- 
tion ! 

Frank {aside to Edward) . — I suppose it is the fashion 
now to receive company with your hat on, and to walk be- 
fore them into your own house. 

Augustus. — What are you mumbling there ? 

Edward. — Nothing, Mr. Carlton ; nothing. 

Augustus. — It is something that I should not hear? 

Frank. — Perhaps. 

Augustus. — Now I insist upon knowing it. 

Frank. — When you have a right to demand it. 

Edward. — Softly, Raynton — we are in a strange house 

Frank. — It is still less becoming to be impolite in one's 
own house. 

Augustus {haughtily) . — Impolite ! Impolite ! Is it be- 
cause I walked before you? 

Frank. — That is the very reason. Whenever we receive 
your visits, or those of any other person, we never go in 
first. 

Augustus. — You only do your duty. But from you to 
me — {He waves his hand disdainfully) . 

Frank. — What, then, from you to me? 

Augustus. — Are you noble? 

Frank {to the two Dudleys and his brother). — Let us 
leave him to himself, with his nobility, if you will take my 
advice. 

Edward. — Oh ! Mr. Carlton ! if you think it beneath 



48 THE SWORD. 

your dignity to keep company with us, why did you invite 
us here? We did not ask to come. 

Augustus. — I did not invite you ; it was my papa. 

FRANK Then we will go to my lord, and thank him for 
his civility. At the same time, we shall let him know that 
his son thinks it a dishonor to receive us. Come, brother. 

AUGUSTUS {stopping him). — You cannot take a joke, 
Master Raynton. Why, I am very happy to see you. 
Papa invited you to please me, for this is my birthday. 
Please, stay with me. 

Frank. — This is another thing. But be more polite 
hereafter. I have not a title as you have, but I will not 
allow any one to insult me, just the same. 

Edward. — Be quiet, Raynton, we should be good friends. 

CHARLES. — This is your birthday, then, Mr. Carlton? 

Edward. — I wish you many happy returns of it. 

Frank. — So do I, sir; and all manner of prosperity, 
[aside) and particularly that you may grow a little more 
polite. 

Wii nam. — I suppose you. had han some presents. 

Augustus. — Oh ! of course. 

Charlks. — Lots of cakes and sweetmeats. 

Augustus. — Ha! ha! cakes! that would in- pretty, in- 
deed. I have them every day. 

William. — Ah! then, it is money. Two or three dollars? 

Augustus {disdainfully). — Something better, and which 
I alone of all here— yes, 1 alone, have a right to wear. 
{Frank and Edward folk aside.) 

William. If 1 had what has been given to you, 1 could 
wear it as well as another, perhaps. 

Augustus {looking <// him contemptuously). — I 
creature] | To the two elder brothers.) What, are you 

both whispering there again. 



THE SWORD. 49 

Enter Henrietta, with a plate of small cakes. 

Henrietta. — Young gentlemen. — I hope you are all 
happy. 

Frank. — We hope you are the same, miss. 

Edward. — Miss, we would like to have you stay with us. 

Henrietta. — Sir, you are very obliging. ( To Augustus.') 
Mamma has sent you this, to entertain your friends, until 
the chocolate is ready. James will bring that up presently, 
and I shall have the pleasure of helping you. 

Frank. — Miss, thank you very much. 

Augustus. — We do not want you here ! But now I think 
of it, my sword-knot ! 

Henrietta. — You will find the sword and the knot in 
your room. Good-bye, gentlemen, until I see you again. 

Frank. — Shall we see you soon, miss? 

Henrietta. — I am going to ask mamma. {She goes out.) 

Augustus {sitting down). — Come, take chairs and sit 
down. {They look at each other, and sit down without 
speaking. Augustus helps the two younger, and then him- 
self , so plentifully that nothing remains for the two elder.) 
Stop a moment ! They will bring in more, and then I'll 
give you some. 

Frank. — Oh ! no, we do not want it. 

Augustus. — Oh ! with all my heart. 

Edward. — If this be the politeness of 

Augustus. — I told you before that they will bring us up 
something else. {Haughtily.) You may take it when it 
comes, or not take it; you understand that? 

Frank {indignantly) . — Yes, that is plain enough ; and 
we see plainly, too, what company we are in. 

Edward. — Are you going to begin your quarrels again? 
Mr. Carlton. Raynton ! {Augustus ?-ises, all the rest also.) 
4 



5° 



mi: SWORD. 



Augustus {going up to Frank). — What company are you 

in, then? 

Prank {firmly)* — With a young nobleman, who is very 
rude and very impudent — who values himself more than he 
ought— and who does not know how well-bred people 
should behave. 

Edward. — We are all of the same opinion. 

Augustus. — I, rude and impudent? Me, a gentleman I 

Frank.— Yes, I say it again— very rude and very impu- 
dent — though you were a duke, though you were a prince. 

Augustus {striking him) . — I'll teach you whom you are 
talking to. (Frank goes to lay hold on him. Augustus 
slips back, goes out, and shuts the door.) 

Edward.— Bless me, Raynton, what have you done? He 
will go to his father, and tell him a thousand stories. What 
will happen to us? 

Prank.— His father is a good man. I will go to him 
myself if Augustus does not. He certainly has not invited 
us here to be insulted by his son. 

Charles.— He will send us home and complain of us. 

WILLIAM.— No j my brother behaved himself properly 
My papa will know. 

Frank. — Come with me. bet us all go and find Lord 
Carlton. 

Augus'ius enters with his sword undrawn* The two 
younger boys run, our in a corner and the other behind 

an arm-chair. FRANK an J EDWARD s tan J firm. 

Augustus (going up to Frank). — Now, I'll teach you, 
you little insolent (Draws, an,/ instead of a blade, finds 

a long turkey's feather. He stops short in confusion. 7he 
little ones hurst into a loud laugh and come up.) 
PRANK. — Come on ! let us see your sword ! 



THE SWORD. 51 

Edward. — Do not make it worse. It is bad enough now. 

William.— Aha ! This was what you alone had a right 
to wear. 

Charles {in mockery). — What a terrible weapon! 

Frank. — I could punish you, but I blush to take revenge. 

Edward. — Let us all leave him. 

William. — Good-bye to you, Mr. Knight of the turkey's 
feather. 

Charles {with mock terror) . — We shall not come again, 
you are too terrible now. {As they are going, Frank stops 
them.) 

Frank. — Let us stay and see his father. Appearances 
will be against us. 

Edward. — You are right. What would he think ^>i us, 
if we left without seeing him ? 

Lord Carlton comes in. They all put on an air of respect. 
Augustus goes aside and cries for spite. 

Lord Carlton {looking at Augustus with indignation) . — = 
Well, sir, you have honored your sword nobly — shame 1 sir, 
shame! {Augustus sobs, but camiot speak.) 

Frank. — My lord, pardon this disturbance. From the 
first moment of our coming, Mr. Carlton received us so 

Lord Carlton. — Do not be uneasy, my dear little friend. 
I know all. I was in the next room, and heard, from the 
beginning, my son's unbecoming speech. He had just 
been making me the fairest promises. I have suspected 
his impertinence for a long time, but I wished to see for 
myself, and for fear of mischief, I put a blade to his sword, 
that, as you see, will not spill much blood. {The children 
burst out a-laughing.) 

Frank {in apology). — My lord, I spoke a little bluntly. 

Lord Carlton {to Frank). — You are an excellent young 



52 THE SWORD. 

gentleman, antl deserve much better than he does, to wear 
this badge of honor. As a token of my esteem and 
acknowledgment, accept this sword : but I will first put a 
blade to it that may be worthy of you. {He pulls from 
under his coat the proper blade,) 

Frank. — Your lordship is too good ; but allow us to 
withdraw. 

LORD CARLTON. — No, no, my dear boys, you shall stay. 
Come with me into another apartment. As for you, sir, 
(to Augustus) do not offer to stir from this place. You 
may celebrate your birthday here all alone. You shall 
never wear a sword again until you deserve one. ( // 
out followed by the boys, Augustus slinks along opposite 
side and then out.) 



FAUNTLEROY AND THE EARL. 



Adapted by Mr. H. Q. Emery, from "Little Lord Fauntleroy," by Mrs. Frances 
Hodgson Burnett. 



CHARACTERS. 

Earl of Dorincourt, a very tall, straight man, with hooked 
nose and white hair. 

Lord Fauntleroy, a beautiful little boy of seven, with light 
curly hair — grandson to the Earl 

A Footman. 

Situation. — Little Lord Fauntleroy's father married in 
America, was disinherited by the Earl, and ?iot long 
after died. The Earl's other sons died withdut chil- 
dren, and so the Earl relented and sent for Little 
Lord Fauntleroy, as he was then to be called. 

The following dialogue is the first appearance of the 
little boy before his grandfather. His mother, whom 
he calls Dearest lives at the Lodge just outside the park 
in which the Earl's castle is located. 

The Earl has deep, fierce eyes, and a harsh voice. 
He is a cruel, hard-hea7'ted man, who suffers from the 
gout. Fauntleroy is an exceedingly lovable little fellow 
of the utmost courage and innocence. He is dressed 
in a black velvet suit, with a large lace collar, and with 
a sash at his waist. He believes hi everybody and 
thinks everyone trusts him. 

53 



54 IAIM I ! l«>\ AND i UK EARL. 

The dialogue takes place in the library of Dorincourt 

Castle, a large room with massive furniture in it and 
shelves of books. 

Enter the Karl OF Dorincourt, walking with difficulty, and 
using a cane. He comes down and sits beside table, 
putting his gouty foot on foot- rest ; he speaks as lie 
comes down. 

Karl of DORINCOURT. — All done for effect ! She thinks 
I shall admire her spirit! I don't admire it! It's only 
American independence! I won't have her living like a 
beggar at my park gates. As she's the boy's mother she 
has a position to keep up, and she shall keep it up. She 
shall have the money whether she likes it or not. She 
shan't tell people that she has to live like a pauper because 
I have done nothing for her. She wants to give the boy a 
bad opinion of me ! 

Enter FOOTMAN. 

Footman (with a bore). — Lord Fauntleroy, my lord. 
(He goes out on other side.) 

Enter Lord Fauntleroy. Jle comes slowly down, looking 

all around him until he discovers the Earl. 

Fauntleroy. — How do you do? Are you the Earl? I'm 

your grandson, you know, that Mr. llavisham brought 
I'm Lord Fauntleroy. ( Holds out his hand.) 1 hopeyOU 
are very well. I'm very glad to see you. 

(7he Earl s /lakes hands, after looking him over f torn 
head to foot. ) 

Earl <>r Dorincourt.- (dad to see me, are you? 
Fauntleroy.— Yes, very. (He sits in chair the other 

side of table and looks at the Jiarl.) \'w kept wondering 



FAUNTLEROY AND THE EARL. 55 

what you would look like. I used to lie in my berth in the 
ship and wonder if you would be anything like my father. 

Earl of Dorincourt. — Am I ? 

Fauntleroy. — Well, I was very young when he died, and 
I may not remember exactly how he looked, but I don't 
think you are like him. 

Earl of Dorincourt. — You are disappointed, I suppose ? 

Fauntleroy. — Oh, no ; of course you would like any one 
to look like your father, but of course you would enjoy the 
way your grandfather looked, even if he wasn't like your 
father. You know how it is yourself about admiring your 
relations. {The Earl leans back and stares at him.) 

Fauntleroy. — Any boy would love his grandfather. 
Especially one that had been as kind to him as you have 
been. 

Earl of Dorincourt. — Oh, I have been kind to you, 
have I? 

Fauntleroy. — Yes ; I'm ever so much obliged to you 
about Bridget, and the apple-woman, and Dick. 

Earl of Dorincourt. — Bridget ! Dick ! The apple - 
woman ! 

Fauntleroy. — Yes, the ones you gave me all that money 
for — the money you told Mr. Havisham to give me. 

Earl of Dorincourt. — Ha! That's it, is it? The 
money you were to spend as you liked. What did you buy 
with it? 

Fauntleroy. — Well, you see, Michael had the fever. 

Earl of Dorincourt. — Who's Michael? 

Fauntleroy. — Michael's Bridget's husband, and they 
were in great trouble. When a man's sick and can't work, 
and has twelve children, you know how it is. And Bridget 
used to come to our house and cry, and I went in to see 
her, and Mr. Havisham sent for me and he said you had 



56 FAUNT1 I RO\ AND mi EARL. 

given him some money for me. And I ran as fast as I 
could and gave it to Bridget and that made it all right. 
That's why I'm so obliged to you. 

Earl of Dorincourt. — Oh ! That was one of the things 
you did for yourself, was it? What else? 

Fauntleroy. — Well, there was Dick. You'd like Dick. 
He's so square. 

Earl of Dorincourt. — What does that mean? 

Fauntleroy {thoughtfully). — I think it means he wouldn't 
cheat anybody, or hit a boy who was under his size, and 
that he blacks people's boots very well and makes them 
shine as much as he can. He's a professional bootblack. 

Marl of DORINCOURT. — And he's one of your acquaint- 
ances, is he? 

FAUNTLEROY. — He's an old friend of mine. Not quite 
as old as Mr. Hobbs, but quite old. (The Earl looks at 
him in bewilderment.) — You don't wear your coronet all 
the time? 

Earl of DORINCOURT. — No, it is not becoming to me. 

FAUNTLEROY. — Mr. Hobbs said you always wore it ; but 
after he thought it over he said he supposed you must some- 
times take it off to put your hat on. 

Earl of Dorincourt {h<- gives a sharp glance at him 

and a half laugh). — Yes, I take- it off occasionally. 

Fauntleroy {looks around room). You must be very 

proud of your house, it's sue h a beautiful house-. 1 1. 
saw anything so beautiful, but of course as I'm only seven, 
I haven't seen much. 

EARL OF DORINCOl RT. — And you think I should be very 
proud, do you ? 

Fauntleroy.—] should be proud of it if it were- my 
house. Everything about it is beautiful. It's a very big 

house for just two people- to live in, isnM it? 



FAUNTLEROY AND THE EARL. 57 

Earl of Dorincourt. — It is quite large enough for two. 
Do you find it too large ? 

Fauntleroy {hesitates) . — I was only thinking that if two 
people lived in it who were not very good companions they 
might feel lonely sometimes. 

Earl of Dorincourt. — Do you think I shall make a good 
companion? 

Fauntleroy. — Yes. I think you will. Mr. Hobbs and 
I were great friends. He was the best friend I had except 
Dearest. 

Earl of Dorincourt {lifts eyebrows). — Who is Dearest? 

Fauntleroy. — She is my mother. {He sighs.) I — I 
think I'd better get up and walk up and down the room. 
{He does so with his hands in his pockets.) 

Earl of Dorincourt {watching him a moment or two). 
— Come here. 

Fauntleroy {goes to him) . — I never was away from my 
own house before. It makes a person have a strange feel- 
ing when he has to stay all night in another person's castle 
instead of his own house. But Dearest is not very far away 
from me. 

Earl of Dorincourt {knits his brow, then looks at 
Fauntleroy) . — I suppose you think you are fond of her. 

Fauntleroy. — Yes. I do think so and I think it's true. 
My father left her to me to take care of and when I'm a 
man I am going to work and earn money for her. 

Earl of Dorincourt. — What do you think of doing? 

Fauntleroy. — I did think of going into business with 
Mr. Hobbs ; but I should like to be a President. 

Earl of Dorincourt. — We'll send you to the House of 
Lords instead. 

Fauntleroy. — Well, if I couldn't be a President, and if 



5<S FAUNTLEROY AND I HE EARL. 

that is a good business, I shouldn't mind. The grocery 
business is dull sometimes. 

Enter Footman. 

FOOTMAN. — Dinner is served, my lord. 

Fauntleroy {looks at Karl's foot). — Would you like me 
to help you? You could lean on me, you know. Once 
Mr. Hobbs hurt his foot with a potato barrel rolling on it, 
and he used to lean on me. 

Marl of Dorincourt {looks at him a moment)* — Do 
you think you could do it. 

Fauntleroy. — I think I could. I'm seven, you know. 
You could lean on your stick on one side, and Dick says 
I've a good deal of muscle for a boy of seven. {He doubles 
up his arm to show /lis muscle.) 

Earl ok Dorincourt {waves footman away)* — Well, 
you may try. ( Gets up and puts hand on Faun tie/ 
shoulder.) 

Fauntleroy. — Don't be afraid of leaning on me, I'm all 
right — if — if it isn't a very long way. ( 7'hev slowly go up 
the room, the boy staggering under the Earl's weight.) 
1 toes your foot hurt you very much when you stand on it ? 
Did you ever put it in hot water and mustard ? Mr. Hobbs 
used to put his in hot water. Arnica is a very nice thing, 
they tell me. 

Earl ok Dorincourt. — No, I never tried hot water. 
Pretty heavy, am I not ? 

Fauntleroy. — Well,a little; but I'm all right. Lean on 
me, grandfather — just lean on me. ( Both go out. Foot' 
man lias stood at hark trying not to laugh* and now goes out 
after them with a gesture of mirthful despair.) 



THE RECONCILIATION. 



Adapted from " Little Women," by Louise M. Alcott. 



CHARACTERS. 



Mr. Lawrence, an old bald-headed man of irritable temper, 
with spectacles on. 

Teddy Lawrence, called Laurie, his gra?idson. 

Josephine Marsh, called Jo, a girl with short hair. 

Situation. — Laurie has written letters to Meg and so caused 
considerable trouble. He has implicated Jo, whose 
mother has called in all the children co?icerned, found 
out the truth and enjoined strict secrecy on all. Laurie's 
grandfather has tried in vain to fi?id out his escapade 
and has threatened to punish him. So Laurie has 
gone to his room to plan to run away. Jo pacifies him 
and then his grandfather, and then goes home. 

Scene I. 

Laurie sits sulkily at his table, with his head resting on his 
hands. There is a smart rap at the door. 

Laurie {in a threatening tone) .—Stop that, or I'll open 
the door and make you. {The knocking is repeated im- 
mediately* He goes to the door, opens it quickly and in 
bounces Jo. He strides across the room.) 

Jo {dropping down artistically on her knees). — Please 
forgive me for being so cross. I came to make it up, and 
can't go away till I have. 

59 



Oo 1HI RE< ON< HIM ION. 

Laurie {with great show of wisdom). — It's all right 

Get up, and don't be a goose, Jo. 

Jo (rising). — Thank you ; I will. Could I ask what's 
the matter? You don't look exactly easy in your mind. 

Laurie (indignantly). — I've been shaken and 1 won't 
bear it. 

j () ._\Yho did it? 

Laurie. — Grandfather j if it had been anyone else I'd 
have — {an energetic gesture of his right arm.) 

fo (soothingly). — That's nothing; I often shake you, 
and you don't mind. 

Laurie. — Pooh ! you're a girl, and it's fun; but I'll 
allow no man to shake me. 

jo. I don't think any one would care to try it, if you 

looked as much like a thunder-cloud as you do now. Win- 
were you treated so? 

Laurie. — Just because I wouldn't say what your mother 
wanted me for. I'd promised not to tell, and of course I 
wasn't going to break my word. 

jo. — Couldn't you satisfy your grandpa in any other way ? 

Laurie. No; he would have the truth, the whole truth, 

and nothing but the truth. I'd have told my part of the 
scrape, if I could without bringing Meg in. As 1 couldn't. 
I held my tongue, and bore the scolding till the old gentle- 
man collared me. Then I got angry, and bolted, lor fear 
I should forget hum If. 

] () . It wasn't nice, but he's sorry, 1 know ; s«> go down 

and make up. I'll help you. 

Uurie.— Hanged if I ^\ Vm not going to be lectured 
and pummelled by every one. just for a bit of a frolic. I 
was sorry about Meg, and begged pardon like- a man ; but 

1 won't do it again, when I wasn't m the wrong. 
[O. lie didn't know that. 



THE RECONCILIATION. 6 1 

Laurie. — He ought to trust me, and not act as if I was 
a baby. It's no use, Jo ; he's got to learn that I'm able 
to take care of myself, and don't need any one's apron- 
string to hold on by. 

Jo {with a sigh). — What pepper-pots you are! How 
do you mean to settle this affair? 

Laurie. — Well, he ought to beg pardon, and believe me 
when I say I can't tell him what the fuss's about. 

Jo. — Bless you ! he won't do that. 

Laurie. — I won't go down till he does. 

Jo. — Now, Teddy, be sensible ; let it pass, and I'll ex- 
plain what I can. You can't stay here, so what's the use 
of being melodramatic ? 

Laurie. — I don't intend to stay here long anyway. I'll 
slip off and take a journey somewhere, and when grandpa 
misses me he'll come round fast enough. 

Jo. — I daresay ; but you ought not to go and worry him. 

Laurie. — Don't preach. I'll go to Washington and see 
Brooke. It's gay there, and I'll enjoy myself after the 
troubles. 

Jo forgetting herself in the prospect) . — What fun you'd 
have ! I wish I could run off too. 

Laurie. — Come on, then ! Why not ? You go and 
surprise your father there, and I'll stir up old Brooke. It 
would be a glorious joke ; let's do it, Jo. We'll leave a 
letter saying we are all right, and trot off at once. I've 
got money enough ; it will do you good ; and be no harm, 
as you go to your father. 

Jo {looking wistfully out of the window). — If I was a 
boy, we'd run away together, and have a capital time ; but 
as I'm a miserable girl, I must be proper, and stop at home. 
Don't tempt me, Teddy, it's a crazy plan. 

Laurie. — That's the fun of it 



,,_. i hi-; RECONCILIATION. 

Jo {covering her tars).— -Hold your tongue! -Prunes 
and prisms " are my doom, and 1 may as well make up my 
mind to it. I came here to moralize, not to hear about 
things that make me skip to think of. 

Laurik (insinuatingly).— I know Meg would wet-blanket 
such a proposal, but I thought you had more spirit 

JO.— Bad boy, be quiet ! Sit down and think of your 
own sins, don't go making me add to mine. It I get you. 
grandpa to apologize for the shaking, will you give up run- 
ning away? 

Laurie. — Yes, — but you won't do it. 

Jo {to herself as she goes 0Ut).—tt I can manage the 
young one I can the old one. {Laurie pulls out a railroad 
map and studies it as curtain goes down.) 

Scene II. 
A library. Mr. Lawrence is seated by a table with boohs 
on it. There is a high bookcase and, in another part 
of the room, high steps. Jo taps at the door. 
Mr. Lawrence {gruffly).— Come in ! 

Jo enters. 

Jo {blandly).— It's only me, sir, come to return a book. 

Mr. LAWRENCE {grim fy) .— Want any more? 

Jo {trying to please him) .—Yes. please. I like Old Sam 

so well I think I'll try the second volume. (Mr. Lawrence 

places the steps SO as to reach the books and Jo skips up 

them, and perches on the top step, where she looks the book, 

over.) 

Mr. Lawrence (walking about the room).— What has 
that boy been about? Don't tiy to shield him. I know 
he has been in mischief by the way he a< ted when he came 

home I can't get a word from him ; and when 1 threatened 



THE RECONCILIATION. 63 

to shake the truth out of him he bolted upstairs, and locked 
himself into his room. 

Jo {reluctantly) . — He did do wrong but we forgave him, 
and all promised not to say a word to any one. 

Mr. Lawrence. — That won't do; he shall not shelter 
himself behind a promise from you soft-hearted girls. If 
he's done anything amiss, he shall confess, beg pardon, 
and be punished. Out with it, Jo, I won't be kept in the 
dark. 

Jo {looking a little frightened). — Indeed, sir, I cannot 
tell ; mother forbade it. Laurie has confessed, asked 
pardon, and been punished quite enough. We don't keep 
silence to shield him, but some one else, and it will make 
more trouble if you interfere. Please don't ; it was partly 
my fault, but it's all right now ; so let's forget it, and talk 
about the " Rambler," or something pleasant. 

Mr. Lawrence. — Hang the " Rambler ! " Come down 
and give me your word that this harum-scarum boy of mine 
hasn't done anything ungrateful or impertinent. If he has, 
after all your kindness to him, I'll thrash him with my own 
hands. 

Jo {descending very cheerfully) . — Well, there were some 
letters written, and they were answered, and then we found 
out it wasn't the person we supposed, but some one else, 
and then everybody promised mother not to say anything 
about — and that's all. 

Mr. Lawrence {rubbing up his hair till it stands on end). 
— Hum — ha — well, if the boy held his tongue because he 
promised, and not from obstinacy, I'll forgive him. He's 
a stubborn fellow, and hard to manage. 

Jo {courageously) . — So am I ; but a kind word will govern 
me when all the king's horses and all the king's men 
couldn't. 



64 THE RE4 ONCU I vi 

Mr. Lawrence {sharply). — You think I'm not kind to 
him, then? 

Jo. — Oh, dear, no, sir; You are rather too kind some- 
times, and then just a trifle hasty when he tries vour 
patience. Don't you think you are? 

Mr. Lawrence {throwing his spectacles on the tabic). — 
You're right, girl, I am ! I love the boy, but he tries my 
patience past bearing, and I don't know how it will end, it 
we go on so. 

Jo. — I'll tell you. He'll run away. {Mr. Lawrence 
looks troubled and sits down,) He won't do it unless he is 
very much worried, and only threatens it sometimes, when 
he gets tired of studying. I often think I should like to, 
especially since my hair was cut ; {laughing) so, if you ever 
miss us, you may advertise for two boys, and look among 
the ships bound for India. 

Mr. Lawrence {relieved). — You hussy, how dare you 
talk in that way? Where's your respect for me, and your 
proper bringing up? Bless the boys and girls! {He 
pinches her cheeks.) What torments they are ; yet we can't 
do without them. Go and bring that boy down to his 
dinner, tell him it's all right, and advise him not to put on 
tragedy airs with his grandfather. I won't bear it. 

Jo {trying to look pathetic). — He won't come, sir; he 
feels badly because you didn't believe him when he said he 
couldn't tell. I think the shaking hurt his feelings 
much. 

Mr. LAWRENCE {laughing). — I'm sorry lor that, and ought 
to thank him for not shaking me, I suppose. What the 
dickens does the fellow expect? 

Jo {looking wise), — It I were you, I'd write him an 

apology, sir. He savs he won't come down till he has one. 
and talks about Washington, and goes on in an a; 



THE RECONCILIATION. 65 

way. A formal apology will make him see how foolish he 
is, and bring him down quite amiable. Try it ; he likes 
fun, and this way is better than talking. I'll carry it up, 
and teach him his duty. 

Mr. Lawrence (gives her a sharp look, then puts on 
his spectacles and writes) . — You're a sly puss, but I don't 
mind being managed by you and Beth. Here, give me a 
bit of paper, and let us have done with this nonsense. {He 
writes and folds the note, while Jo watches him. She drops 
a kiss on his bald head, takes the note and goes out.) 

Scene III. 

A hallway before Laurie's chamber door. 
Jo enters and knocks on the door. 

Jo {slips the note under the door and talks through the 
keyhole). — Here is the apology. You're expected down 
to dinner, and you must act submissive and decorous, and 
not be foolish. {She tries the door, finds it locked and 
starts away.) 

Laurie conies out, laughing. 

Laurie. — What a good fellow you are, Jo ! Did you get 
blown up ? 

Jo. — No, he was pretty mild on the whole. 

Laurie. — Ah ! I got it all round. Even you cast me 
off over there, and I felt just ready to go to the deuce. 

Jo. — Don't talk in that way ; turn over a new leaf and 
begin again, Teddy, my son. 

Laurie {dolefully) . — I keep turning over new leaves, and 
spoiling them, as I used to spoil my copy-books ; and I 
make so many beginnings there never will be an end. 

Jo. — Go and eat your dinner ; you'll feel better after it. 
Men always croak when they are hungry. {She hurries out.) 

Laurie. — That's a " label " on my " sect." {He goes out.) 
5 



KEEPING HOUSE. 



CHARACTERS. 

Lizzie Merriam, a haughty overbearing girl, who wears large 

rings and a coral necklace. 
Bessie Belmont, a polite but ambitious girl, 70/10 wants to 

lead others. 
Lucy Dawson, a quiet girt who loves tJie truth. 

Mary Dawson, a sick little girl, whd always lies on the sofa. 

Polly Dawson, a little child full 0/ mischief, who carries a, 
case knife. 

Situation. — Bessie, a cousin, and Lizzie, a neighbor, come 
to play with the Dawson children. Mary has fallen 
downstairs and injured her leg so she has to ha\ < a 
splint on it, and she is confined to her zoom. All the 
girls go there to play. They pretend to keep house 101- 
til \a/:/.\\, provoked because \,v\\ says she ate up the 
cake, flies into a passion and rushes home. 

On one side 0/ the platform is a sofa ; on the other 
is a screen behind which is a table partially set with 
doll's dishes. 77/e platform is othenoise furnished as 
a sitting room. 

MARY ties on the so/a. I. rev enters ,/uiet/y. 
Lucy. — Mamma says we can play in your room this 
afternoon. 

Mary.— Well, I'm glad, 'cause you haven't played up 
here for three days. 

l,i r< y.— What shall we play whew they come? 

66 



KEEPING HOUSE. 67 

Mary. — Who's a-comin' 'cept Polly and you? 

Lucy. — Why, Bessie said she would come over, if Aunt 
Jane would let her, and perhaps Lizzie Merriam will come. 
{A noise without) 

Mary. — Well, I guess they've all of 'em come by the 
sound. 

Lucy {she opens the door). — Yes, here's Bessie and 
Polly and Lizzie. 

Enter Bessie, Polly and Lizzie. 

Mary. — I'm glad to see you all and I think it would be 
very nice to play house. 

Bessie. — Yes, and then you can take part, too. 

Lizzie. — I will be the lady of the house, because I have 
rings on my fingers and a coral necklace. — My name is 
Mrs. Sprat. Mary, you shall be Mrs. Gobang, come a- 
visiting me; because you can't do anything else. We'll 
make believe you've lost your husband in the wars. I 
know a Mrs. Gobang, she is always taking-on just this way, 
and saying, " My poor dear husband ! " {She says the words 
with a very nasal twang dehind her handkerchief, and they 
all laugh.) 

Lucy. — Well, what shall I be ? 

Lizzie. — Oh, you shall be a hired girl, and wear a hand- 
kerchief on your head, just as our girl does. And you 
must be a little deaf and keep saying " What, ma'am ? " 
when I speak to you. 

Bessie. — And I will be Mr. Jack Sprat, the head of the 
family. 

Lizzie. — Yes, you can put on a waterproof cloak, and 
you will make quite a good-looking husband ; but I shall 
be the head of the family myself, and have things about as 
I please. 



OS ki I PING HOI -i . 

Bessie {putting on her cloak). — Well, there, I don't 
know about that ; I don't think it's very polite for you to 
treat your husband in that way. 

Lizzie {with a toss of the head). — But I believe in 
"Woman's Rights" and if there's anything I despise, it is 
a man meddling about the house. 

Lucy (to Polly, 70/10 is hitting a knife she has stuck into 
a crack in a chair, and making a whirring noise). — 1 
wouldn't do so, Polly, it troubles us, and besides I'm afraid 
it will break the knife. 

Lizzie [as Mrs Sprat). — I don't allow my hired girl to 
interfere with my children. I am mistress of the house, 
I'd have you to know. There, little daughter, they shan't 
plague her. She shall keep on doing mischief, so she shall. 
(Polly redoubles her efforts with the knife.) 

Mary (groaning loudly). — Oh! oh! oh! My poor 
husband! all dead of a cannon-bullet! Oh! oh! 

Lizzie (trying to make conversation). — My good Mrs. 
Gobang, I think I have got something in my eye ; will you 
please tell me how it looks? 

Mary (looking into it). — Oh, your eye looks very well, 
ma'am. Don't \xcuse it, it looks well enough for me. 

Lizzik. — Ahem! (She arranges her dress.) Are your 
feet warm, Mrs. Gobang ? 

Mary. — Thank you, ma'am I don't feel 'em cold. Oh, 
dear, if your husband was all (leaded up, I .uuess you'd cry, 
Mrs. Sprat. (She weeps into her handkerchief.) 

Lizzie (with a threatening gesture). — You must go right 
out of the parlor, Bridget I mean you, Lucy, the par- 
lor isn't any place for hired -iris. 

Lucv (inclining her head) . — Ma'am ? 

Lizzie (moaning). — Oh, dear, the plague of having a 

deaf girl! You don't know how trying it IS, Mrs. Gobang! 



KEEPING HOUSE. 69 

That hired girl, Bridget, hears with her elbows, Mrs. Go- 
bang, I verily believe she does. 

Mary. — Oh, no, ma 'am, I guess she doesn't hear with 
her elbows, does she ? If she heard with her elbows, she 
wouldn't have to ask you over again. {Every one laughs 
and Lucy looks at her elbows}. — Will you please, ma'am, 
ask Bridget to hot a flat-iron? I've cried my handkerchief 
all up. 

Lizzie. — Yes, go right out, Bridget and hot a flatiron. 
Go out, this instant, and build a fire, Bridget. 

Bessie {as Mr. Sprat). — Yes, go right out, Bridget. 
{Lucy goes out.) 

Mary {sobbing as Mrs. Gobang). — It was my darlin' 
husband's handkerchief. 

Bessie {laughing). — Rather a small one for a man. 

Mary {quickly). — Well, my husband had a very small 
nose. 

Lizzie {as M?-s. Sprat). — Oh, Mrs. Gobang, you ought 
to be exceeding thankful you're a widow, and don't keep 
house. I think my hired girls will carry down my gray 
hairs to the grave. The last one I had was Irish and very 
Catholic. {Mary groans a?id looks for a dry spot on her 
handkei-chief.) Yes, indeed it was awful, for she was al- 
ways going to masses and mass-meetings. And there 
couldn't anybody die but they must be "waked" you 
know. 

Mary {opened her eyes). — Why, I didn't know they 
could be waked up when they was dead. 

Lizzie. — Oh, but they only make believe you can wake 
'em; of course it isn't true. For my part, I don't believe 
a word an Irish girl says, any way. {Polly who has at in- 
tervals kept up a noise with the knife now makes a scrap- 
ing, rasping sound) . — Bridget, Bridget! 



70 KEEPING HOUSE. 

Lucy enters* 

Lucy [pending her head to one side). — Ma'am? 

LiZZIE< — Why in the world don't you see to that baby? 
I believe you are losing your mind. 

I.ri v. — Ma'am? 

Liz,. ie. — Take her out! {Lucy takes Polly out.) 

Mary. — That makes me think. What do yous'pose the 
reason is folks can't be waked up? What makes 'em stay 
in heaven all the days, and nights and years, and never 
come down here to see anybody, not a minute? 

Lizzie. — What an idea! I'm sure I don't know. 

Mary. — Well, I've been a thinkin', that when God has 
sended 'em up to the sky, they like to stay up there the 
best. It's a nicer place, a great deal nicer place, up in 
God's house. 

Lizzie. — Oh, yes, of course, but our play 

Mary. — I've been a-thinkin' that when I go up to God's 
house, I sha'n't wear the splint. I can run all over the 
house, and he'll be willing I should go upstairs ; and down 
cellar, you know. (She sighs.) 

Lizzie {impatiently). — Well, let's go on with our play. 
It's most supper-time, Mrs. Gobang. Come in, Bridget. 

I i v enters. 

Lucy (turning up one ear). — Ma'am? 

Lizzie. — Bridget, have you attended to your sister — to 
my little child, I mean? (Puev uo,ts.) Then go out and 
make some sassafras-rakes, and some eel-pie, and some 

squirrel-sou]). And Bel the table in live minutes do you 
hear? 

Lucv. Ma'am, what did you say about gingerbread? 

Bessie (as Mr. Sprat). — Oh, how stupid Bridget is' 



KEEPING HOUSE. 7 I 

Mrs. Sprat says eel-jumbles, and sassafras-pie, and pound- 
cake, all made in five minutes. (Everybody laughs.') 

Mary (sighing) . — Oh, my darlin' husband used to like 
jumble-pie. I've forgot to cry for ever so long. (She 
weeps and turns away her head.) 

Lucy (she has moved the table into the middle of the 
floor and gone out. She now returns) . — Please, ma'am. I 
just made some eel-jumbles and things, and a dog came in 
and stole them. 

Lizzie. — Very well, Bridget, make some more. 

Bessie. — Yes, make some more, and chain up that dog. 

Lucy. — But real honest true, the fruit-cake is all gone 
out of our play chest. You ate it up, you know, Lizzie. 
But it's no matter. We'll cut up some cookies, or may be 
mother '11 let us have some oyster-crackers. 

Lizzie (angrily). — / ate up the cake ! It's no such thing, 
I never touched it ! 

Lucy. — Oh, but you did. I suppose you've forgotten. 
You went to the cake-chest this morning, and last night, 
and yesterday noon, and ever so many more times. (Lizzie 
cannot speak from anger.) — But it's just as well. You could 
have it as well as not, and perfectly welcome. 

Lizzie (indignantly). — What are you talking about? I 
wonder if you take me for a pig, Lucy Dawson? I heard 
what your mother said about that cake. She said it was 
too dry for her company, but it was too rich for little girls, 
and we must only eat a teeny speck at a time. I told my 
mamma and she laughed, to think such mean dried-up cake 
was too rich for little girls ! 

Lucy. — It was rich, nice cake, Lizzie, but mother said 
the slices had been cut a great while, and it was drying up. 
Let's not talk any more about it. 

Lizzie. — Oh, but I shall talk more about it. You keep 



72 KEEPING HOUSE. 

hinting that I tell wrong stories and steal victuals. Yes you 
do! And you ain't willing to let me speak. {.There is a 
slight pause for a reply but Lucy says nothing; so Lizzie 
rises.) I won't stay here to be imposed upon, and told 
that I'm a liar and a thief, so I won't ! I'll go right home 
this very minute, and tell my mother just how you treat 
your company! (She flounces out of the room in great 
anger.) 

Lucy [following her to the door). — Oh, don't go, Lizzie. 
Stay and play ! 

Bessie (coolly, as the door slams). — Well, I'm glad she's 
gone. She's a bold thing, and my mother wouldn't like 
me to play with her, if she knew how she acts. She said 
" victuals " for food and that isn't elegant, mother says. 
What right had she to set up and say she'd be Mrs. Sprat? 
So forward! 

Lucy. — Rut I'm sorry she's gone. I don't like to have 
her go and tell that I wasn't polite. 

Mary.- -You was polite, a great deal politer'n she was. 
I wouldn't rare if I would be you, Lucy. 1 don't wish 
Lizzie was dead, but I wish she was a duck a-sailin' on the 
water ! 

CURTAIN. 



ADOPT MY BABY. 



Adapted from " Timothy's Quest," by Mrs. Kate Douglas Wiggin. 



CHARACTERS. 



Miss Avilda Cummins, a young lady dressed as an old maid, 

very tall, straight, and prim. 

Miss Samantha Ann Ripley, another young lady, similarly 
dressed, not quite so severe in aspect. 

Timothy Jessup, a small boy, in ragged clothes. 

A Baby and a Dog. 

Situation. — Timothy has taken the baby, Lady Gay, as she 
is called, away from their old home in London, because 
their protector died, and there was a threat of putting 
them both into some institution. After searching all 
day, he has at last found a house that suits his ideals. 
He approaches, and finally gains a home for himself 
and his little charge. 

The dialogue which follows takes place in the living 
v room of the house. It is plainly fu7-nished. One door 
opens outdoors and the other into the kitchen. 

Timothy is cheerful, but ragged, and Lady Gay is 
very trusting and dirty. The dog, Rags, is as affec- 
tionate and as dirty as any of them. Avilda and 
Samantha are two old maids, whose shrunken affections 
are warmed by the appearance of something to love. 

73 



74 AD0F1 MY BABY. 

,-/ knock at the door on one side. Enter Ayii.ua from the 
other side. She crosses and opens the door, admitting 
Timothy, who drags in a ha she t containing a baby and 

a dog, both fast asleep. AviLDA starts hack in a ma le- 
nient at the sight 

Timothy. — Do you n^vd any babies here, if you please? 
{Avilda is so confused she says nothing but retires a mo mem 
through the door she entered.) I wonder what that marble 
stone was under the tree at the corner. I guess it must be 
a country door-plate. It had a lady's name on it anyway. 
It was " Martha Cummins." 

A\ n. DA returns. 

TIMOTHY. — Does Miss Martha Cummins live here, if you 
please ? 

Ayii.da (half-shocked), — What do you want? 

Timothy {boldly), — 1 want to get somebody to adopt my 
baby. If you haven't got any of your own, you couldn't find 
one half as dear and as pretty as she is. And you needn't 
have me too, you know, unless you should need me to help 
take care of her. 

Ayii.da {sarcastically). — You're very kind, but I don't 
think I care to adopt any babies this afternoon, thank you. 
{She makes a motion as if to assist them forth.) You'd 
better run right back home to your mother, if you've got 
one, and know where it is, anyhow. 

Timothy (bursting into tears). — I — I haven't I | The 
baby wakes up and wails, and the doe howls.) 

A\nn\ (beside herself with the excitement). — Samanthy 
\nn I Samanthy Ann ! Come right lure and tell me what 
to do ! 



ADOPT MY BABY. 75 

Enter Samantha Ann with a handful of rags she has been 
sorting. 

Samantha. — Land o' liberty ! Where'd they come from, 
and what air they tryin' to act out? 

Avilda. — This boy's a baby agent, as near as I can make 
out ; he wants I should adopt this red-headed baby, but 
says I ain't obliged to take him too, and makes out they 
haven't got any home. I told him I wa'n't adoptin' any 
babies just now, and at that he burst out cryin', and the 
other two followed suit. Now, have the three of 'em just 
escaped from some asylum, or are they too little to be 
lunatics? 

Timothy {drying his tears and speaking penitently). — I 
cried before I thought, because Gay hasn't had anything 
but cookies since last night, and she'll have no place to 
sleep unless you'll let us stay here just till morning. We 
went by all the other houses, and chose this one because 
this one was so beautiful. 

Samantha. — Nothin' but cookies sence — Land o' liberty ! 
{She starts for the kitchen.) 

AviLDA.^-Come back here, Samanthy ! Don't you leave 
me alone with 'em, and don't let's have all the neighbors 
runnin' in ; you take 'em into the kitchen and give 'em 
somethin' to eat, and we'll see about the rest afterwards. 

Timothy {to Gay). — Come, get supper. 

Samanthy {she opens the door into the kitchen, while 
Timothy, Gay, and Rags go out) . — Wall, I vow ! travelin' 
over the country all alone, 'n' not knee-high to a toad ! 
They're sendin' out awful young tramps this season, but 
they shan't go away hungry, if I know it. {She goes out, 
while Avilda crosses to opposite side of platform and sinks 
down in an exhausted condition on the sofa. In a moment, 
Samantha looks in and Avilda beckons to her to enter. She 



7 6 ADOP1 M\ BABY. 

enters.) Now, whatever makes you so panicky, Vildy? 

Didn't you never see a tramp before, for pity's sake? And 
if you're scar't for fear I can't handle 'em alone, why, [abe 
'11 be comin' along soon. The prospeck of gittin' to bed 's 
the only thing that'll make him 'n' the mare hurry ; 'n' 
they'll both be cal'latin' on that by this time ! 

Avii.da. — Samanthy Ann, the first question that that Un- 
asked me was, " If Miss Martha Cummins lived here." 
Now, what do you make of that ? 

Samantha [astonished). — Asked if Marthy Cummins 
lived here? How under the canopy did he ever hear 
Marthy's name? Wall, somebody told him to ask, that's 
all there is about it. And what harm was there in it, any- 
how ? 

Avilda. — Oh, I don't know, I don't know ; but the 
minute that boy looked up at me and asked for Martha 
Cummins, the old trouble, that I thought was dead and 
buried years ago, started right up in my heart and began to 
ache just as if it all happened yesterdav. 

Samantha. — Now, keep stiddy, Vildy : what could 
happen ? 

Avilda [lowering her voice almost to a whisper) . — Why, it 
flashed across my mind in a minute, that perhaps Martha's 
baby didn't die, as they told her. 

Samantha. — But, land o' liberty, s'posin' it didn't ! Poor 
Marthy died herself more'n twenty years ago. 

AVILDA. — I know ; but supposing her baby didn't die ; 
and supposing it grew up and died, and left this little girl 
to roam round the world afoot and alone? 

Samantha.— You're cal'latm' dreadful close, 'pears tome; 

now, don't go s'posin' any more things. You're makin' out 

one of them yellow-covered books, sech as the summer 

boarders bring out here to read ; always chock-full ofdoin's 



ADOPT MY BABY. 77 

that never would come to pass in this or any other Chris- 
tian country. You jest lay down and snuff your camphire, 
and I'll go out an' pump that boy drier'n' a sand heap. 
(She goes out.) 

Avilda (she reclines a?i instant and snuffs a smelling- 
bottle) . — No, I must go out and see what havoc those young 
tramps are making. I ought not to have called Samanthy 
Ann in here. (She goes out.) 

Enter Samantha, preceded by Timothy. 

Samantha. — Now, there's one thing I want you to tell 
me, and that is, what made you ask for Miss Marthy Cum- 
mins when you come to the door ? 

Timothy. — Why, I thought it was the lady-of-the-house's 
name. I saw it on her door-plate. 

Samantha. — But we ain't got any door-plate, to begin 
with. 

Timothy. — Not a silver one on your door, like they have 
in the city ; but isn't that white marble piece in the yard a 
door-plate? It's got " Martha Cummins, aged 17," on it. 
I thought maybe in the country they had them in their 
gardens ; only I thought it was queer they put their ages 
on them, because they'd have to be scratched out every 
little while, wouldn't they? 

Samantha (in utter astonishment) . — My grief ! for pity's 
sake, don't you know a tombstun when you see it? 

Timothy. — No, what is a tombstun ? 

Samantha. — Land sakes ! what do you know, anyway? 
Didn't you never see a graveyard, where folks is buried ? 

Timothy. — I never went to the graveyard, but I know 
where it is, and I know about people's being buried. Flossy 
is going to be buried. The white stone shows the places 
where the people are put, and tells their names, does it? 



7 8 ADOPT MY BABY. 

Why, it is a kind of door-plate, after all, don't you see? 
Who is Martha Cummins, aged 17 ? 

Samaniha. — She was Miss Vildy's sister, and she went to 
the city, and then come home and died here, long years 
ago. Miss Yildy set great store by her, and can't bear to 
have her name spoke; so remember what I say. Now. 
this " Flossy " you tell me about (of all the fool names I 
ever hearn tell of, that beats all, — sounds like a wax-doll, 
with her clo'se sewed on!); was she a young woman? 

TIMOTHY {puzzled). — I don't know whether she was 
young or not. She had young yellow hair, and veiv young 
shiny teeth, white as china ; but her neck was crackled 
underneath, like Miss Vilda's ;— it hadn't any kissing-places 
in it like day's. 

Enter Avn.iu and the baby asleep* 
Avii.da {nervously), — Well, what do you advise doing 
Samantha. — I don't feel competent to advise, Vilda ; the 
house ain't mine, nor yet the beds that's in it, nor the vic- 
tuals in the butt'ry ; but as a professin' Christian and mem- 
ber of the Orthodox Church in good and reg'lar standin', 
you can't turn 'em ou'doors when it's comin' on dark and 
they ain't got no place to sleep. 

AviLDA. — Plenty of good Orthodox folks turned their 
backs on Martha when she was in trouble. 

SAMANTHA. — There may be Orthodox hogs, lor all 1 know, 
but that ain't no reason why we should copy after 'em '^ 1 
know of. 

Avii.da {coldly). — 1 don't propose to take in two strange 
children and saddle myself with 'em for days or weeks, 
perhaps, but I'll tell you what I'll i\n. Supposing we send 
the boy over to Squire 1 .can's. It's near haying-time, and 
he may take him in to help round and do chores. (7km- 



ADOPT MY BABY. 79 

ing to Timothy.} We'll keep the baby as long as you get 
a chance to work anywheres near. {He stoops down and 
kisses Gay.) How'll the baby act when she wakes up and 
finds you're gone? 

Timothy. — Well, I don't know exactly, because she's 
always had me, you see. But I guess she'll be all right, 
now that she knows you a little, and if I can see her every 
day. She never cries except once in a long while when she 
gets mad ; and if you're careful how you behave, she'll 
hardly ever get mad at you. {Timothy goes out.) 

Avilda. — Well, I vow ! I guess she'd better do the be- 
having! {They carry the baby away,) 



SELLING THE IMAGE. 



Adapted from " Toinette's Philip," by Mrs. C. V. Jamison. 



CHARACTERS. 

Mr. Ainsworth, a prosperous artist. 

Philip, a handsome boy, with large blue eyes and curling 
brown hair; he wears a blue shirt and blue trousers, 
and a white eap ; he carries a tray of flowers, 

Dea, a small girl, in a long dark-red frock ; a long white 
muslin scarf round her neck crosses on Iter breast, is 
tied behind her bach and falls almost to the ground ; a 
red silk handkerchief copers her head and is knotted 
under her chin ; a covered basket is on her arm. 

Seline, a large, good-natured colored woman ; she wears a 
white apron and cap. 

Situation. — SELINE sells fruit and nuts on a street corner in 

New Orleans. Two waifs, Philip and Dea, interest 
her. Philip sells flowers ; Dea sells little wax images 

made by her poor and eccentric father. Seline has 

been away for some weeks an, t the children hare not 
had good fortune. Ski. ink decides to help Dea sell her 

images a//,/ so interests Mr. Ainsworth, who pays the 

price asked and negotiates for nunc. Dea's quaint 

So 



SELLING THE IMAGE. 8 1 

figure appeals to his artistic instincts and Philip looks 
like his dead son. 

Dea carries in her basket two figures, Esmeralda 
and her goat, and Quasimodo, the hunchback of Notre 
Dame, — characters in Victor Hugo 's great novel, Notre 
Dame. A wolf-dog follows the children as they enter, 
and lies down under Seline's stand. 

A street corner. Seline is behind her stand, when Philip 
and Dea come rushing in. 

Dea. — Yes, there she is ! {She runs to her arms.) 

Seline {clasping the child) . — Oh, honey, how glad I is 
ter see yer — an' Mars' Philip, too ! — how you's both done 
growed since I's been gone. 

Philip {merrily). — And how thin you've got, Seline. 
You've lost flesh going to the country to your cousin's 
wedding. 

Seline. — My, my, jes' hear dat boy ! Do you think I'm 
slimmer, Mam'selle Dea? {She looks at her fat sides.) 
An' what's you chiPrun been erdoin' all dis yere time dat 
I's been away? An' how's yer pauv 1 papa, Ma'mselle? 

Dea {sighing). — He's very bad, Seline. He don't sleep. 

Seline. — My, my, honey, I's sorry ter hear sech bad 
newses. An' is yer done sole any yer little images while 
I's gone to der weddin' ? 

Dea. — No, Seline, not one. Paui? papa's finished Qua- 
simodo. I've got him in my basket. I'm to sell him for 
five dollars. 

Seline. — Well, honey, ef yer want ter sell him yer got 
ter stan' him out where people'll see him ; 'taint no use ter 
keep him covered up in yer basket. I'm goin' ter give yer 
a corner of my table. {She brushes some cakes and fruits 
aside and puts the image there.) 



82 -l LLING THE 1M • 

I >i.a. — But the dust, Seline ! Papa doesn't like them to 
get dusty. 

SELINE. — Never mind der dust, chile; it'll blow off. It's 
der money we want, an' 1 don't see how yer goin' ter sell 
dat poor little crooked image. {She looks at it contemp- 
tuously.} But I'm goin' ter sell one of dem little images 
fer yer papa dis yere day, er my name ain't Seline. I ain't 
been right yere in dis place since en' durin' the war fer 
nothin'. I ain't made no fortune, but I's done made right 
smart, an' now I's got plenty to do a little fer you, honey, 
what ain't got no ma, only Kpauv 1 sick papa, so I's going ter 
help yer sell yer little images. Yer tired an' sleepy, chile ; 
jest drap down on my little stool an' take a nap in der 
shade, an' I'll look out for customers. (Dea goes to 
sleep behind the stand. J y hilip takes a position at the side 
and Seline eo »ies round behind and waves a big fan met 
the fruit.) I )ar's dat stranger what useter pass yere right 
often fer flowers an' pralines. He's goin' ter buy yer little 
image if he comes ter day. He paints pictures up in der 
top of dat tall house down yere on Rue Royale, an' he's 
from der Norf, an' rich — rich. ( Pea sits up and looks 
pleased. They wa tch people pass them in silenee. j 

Mr. AlNSWORTH enters on' the side nearest Philips passes 
by him, then turns back and lends over tray of flan 

Mr. AlNSWORTH {to himself). — How fragrant ! How de- 
licious ! {He selects a bunch of flowers?) Some pecans, 
please. {He puts down a ,ti me for the nuts. Both children 
watch him with wide-open exes.) 

Skunk. — They're right fresh, M'sieurj an' won't yer have 
a few pralines for lagnappe? 

MR. AlNSWORTH. — Certainly; thank you. {Looking at 
the children while Seline puts everything into a paper bag for 
him.) 



SELLING THE IMAGE. 83 

Seline {handing him the bag). — If yer please, M'sieur, 
I'd like ter show yer dis yere little image. {She shows him 
Quasimodo.) 

Mr. Ainsworth {laying down flowers and bag, and taking 
up the figure very carefully). — Who made this? 

Dea. — My papa. 

Mr. Ainsworth. — Your papa ! Well, he's a genius. It 
is perfectly modeled. What's your papa's name, and where 
does he live? {Dea drops her head and says nothing.) 

Seline. — Her pauv' papa is al'ays sick. {She touches her 
forehead significantly.) He doesn't like to see no one. 
She would never tell strangers where she lives 

Mr. Ainsworth. — Oh, I see. {Gently to Dea.) Well, 
my child, can you tell me what character this figure repre- 
sents? 

Dea. — It is Quasimodo. 

Mr. Ainsworth. — Of course. It is perfect — perfect ; but 
what a strange subject. {He hums it over and over.) Do 
you want to sell it? 

Dea {eagerly). — Oh, yes, M'sieur. If you will buy it, 
pauv' papa will be so glad — he told me that I must sell it 
to-day. 

Mr. Ainsworth. — How much do you ask for it? 

Dea. — Papa said I could sell it for five dollars. Is five 
dollars too much? {She hesitates.) He said it was a work 
of art, but if you think it is too much — 

Mr. Ainsworth. — It is a work of art. {He draws out a 
five-dollar note from his pocket, but holds it.) But tell me, 
if you can, how long it took your father to make this ? 

Dea. — Oh, a long time, M'sieur. I can't tell just how 
long, because he works at night when I'm asleep. 

Mr. Ainsworth. — Ah ! he works at night, — and do you 
sell many? 



84 SELLING THE DfAGl . 

Dea. — No, M'sieur, I have not sold one for a long time. 

Philip.— She hasn't sold one since Mardi Gras. A 
stranger bought one then, but he only gave three dollars for it. 

Mr. Ainsworth {smiting at Philip) . — Are you her brother? 

Philip. — Oh, no, M'sieur, we are not related. She's just 
my friend. She's a girl, and I try to take care of her, and 
help her all I can. 

Mr. Ainsworth (to himself, as he funis away). — How- 
much he is like him, — the same look, the same smile, and 
about the same age. If Laura could see him, she would 
think her boy had come to life again. (Turning back as if 
from a dream.) What a good boy you are ! She's a fortu- 
nate little girl to have such a friend. Tell me your name, 
please ; I wish to get better acquainted with you. 

Philip {promptly). — My name is Philip, M'sieur. 

Mr. Ainsworth. — Philip! how strange ! What is your 
other name? 

Philip. — Oh, I'm always called Toinette's Philip. I 
never thought of any other name. I'll ask my mammy to- 
night if I've got another. 

Mr. Ainsworth. — Is Toinette your mother? 

Philip. — No, M'sieur, she's my mammy. She's a yellow 
woman, and you see I'm white. 

Mr. AINSWORTH. — Have you always lived with Toinette? 

Philip. — Always, ever since I can remember. 

Mr. Ainsworth. — Then you have no parents? 

PHILIP. -Parents? Oh, no, I guess not. I don't know ; 
I'll ask mammy. 

Mr. Ainsworth. — Where do you live? 

PHILIP. — I live on Ursulines street, away down town. 
Mammy has a garden and sells Mowers. It's a right pretty 
garden. Won't you come some day to see it? Mammy's 
proud of her garden, and likes Strangers to see it. 



SELLING THE IMAGE. 85 

Mr. Ainsworth. — Thank you ; certainly I will come. I 
like flowers myself, and I like pictures. I wonder if you like 
them — I mean pictures. I suppose you have not seen many. 

Philip. — Lots of them, and I like them, too. I've seen 
them in the churches, and in the shop-windows — I've tried 
to make some. 

Mr. Ainsworth. — Well, my boy, I'm a painter. I paint 
pictures. Would you like to come and see mine ? 

Philip. — Yes, M'sieur. I would if mammy says I may. 
I'll ask her, and if she'll let me, •I'll come to-morrow. 

Mr. Ainsworth.— I wish you could bring your little friend 
with you. I should like to paint a picture of her. {Dea 
has been anxiously watching the note fluttering in his hand.) 

Philip. — Will you go with me, Dea ? 

Dea {curtly). — I can't — I must sell Esmeralda. 

Mr. Ainsworth {smiling front one to the other) . — So you 
have a figure of Esmeralda, and your name is Dea. Where 
is Homo, the wolf ? 

Dea. — Homo's under the table asleep, but he's not a 
wolf ; he's only a wolf-dog. 

Mr. Ainsworth {to himself). — Really, it is very interest- 
ing. — {The dog comes forth.) This child and the dog seem 
to have stepped out of one of Victo: Hugo's books. {He 
turns to Dea.) My child, if you will come to my studio, I 
will pay you for your time, and I w'U buy some more of 
your little figures. I won't keep you long, and it will be 
better than staying in the street all day. 

Seline. — Yes, honey, so it will. Does yer understand? 
M'sieur'll pay yer, and yer'll have plenty money fer yer 
pauv 1 papa. 

Dea {hesitating). — I'm afraid papa won't be willing. I'll 
ask him, but I must go home now. I must — I must go to 
papa. 



g 6 SELLING 1111 MACE. 

,.„„ „ t/o Mr. Ainsworth).-Ve* can't promise now, but 

perhaps she'll come to-morrow. I'll try to bring her, M s.eur. 

'Mk AwswdOH-Thankyou. 1 live in that tall house 

just below here. Ask the cobbler in the court to show you 

the way to Mr. Ainsworth's apartment (At fcrf >'• **"* 

the five-dollar note to Dea.) 

,>„, MM a&,oiofgratHu<ie).-OWsL«K,Vmsofrd 

Yes I'll try to come; when ftmf papa knows how good 
'are, perhaps he'll let me come. And may 1 brmg I ifr 
meralda? Will you buy Esmeralda? 

" . LnswokVh („«///«,).-Ves, I'll buy Esmeralda. 
You'll find me a good customer, if you'll bring your figures 
to my studio. v 

DEA (eagerly).-^ come-I'll come to-morrow . No* 

Setae, give memy basket. 1 must run all the way to papa. 

Skuxk («***. « * Wr the tasket)-\ tet. honey. 

don't get so flustered, an' don't run. it'll make yer httle 

headache, an' then yer can't get yer papa's *•»«■ 

DEA._imust-l must run, Seline. Au KVOir, M .«. 
An revoir, PhiHp. {With a happy smiU she «"•*> 

shim (after watching Dea duappear).-Oh, M s >,'. 
vou^Tdone a good deed buyin' <lat little .mage. I tore 

::;,, she's s,,gLl she, an', wan. 'cause he, papa a,n,ha,l 

n °P^.Nor no supper anight Dea don't hke to 
tell but I always know when they have nothmg to eat. 

mIa^uM- -~» ^)-Whatl s.tpos.^ 

-nothing to eatl Are they as poor as that? And haw 

tv,pv no one to take i are ol them? 

^.r'l'hcv haven't anv , , d'hev , ame here I , 

^whenDeawas a baby, and her father's beenstrange 

ami Sick ever since her mother died. 

SB«(t«i#)-W mat poorchdc has to tab 



SELLING THE. IMAGE. 87 

care of him. Oh, M'sieur, do buy somethin' more fer the 
sake of that motherless little cretur ! 

Mr. Ainsworth. — I will — I certainly will. I'll try to do 
something for them. I'll sell some to my friends. Bring 
the child to me and I will see what I can do. Good day ! 
(He goes out.) 

Philip. — Good day, M'sieur. 

Seline. — Good day, M'sieur. (They watch him depart.) 

Philip! — I didn't think any one who painted pictures 
would stop to talk to us. Why, I ain't a bit afraid of him. 
You can bet I'm going to see him, and I'm going to get 
him to teach me to paint pictures. 

Seline. — An' he's rich ! — He'll buy lots of them little 
images. 

CURTAIN. 



*' THE SICK BOY'S PLAN. 



CHARACTERS. 

Mr. Goodwin, a clergyman, 

Mr. Crawson, a fisherman, pale ami hollow-eyed. 

Mr. Doj[ge, a prosperous fanner. 

Jimmiepodge, a small hoy just recovering from a serious 

illness. 
Mrs. Dodge, his mother, a gentle woman. 
Servant. 

Situation. — Jimmie Dodge was enticed by Daniel Crawson 
to play truant. They quarreled over their pond lilies 
and Daniel struck Ji.mmik on the head with an oar. 

He was taken home senseless. Finally Jim. mil gets bet- 
ter, Daniel reforms and Jimmie plans to surprise the 
kind doctor. 

The scene is in the ordinary liring-room of a well 
furnished farm-house. Young people can take all the 
parts with proper costumes. 

/inter Rev. Mr. ( i< >< >i>\\ i\ followed by MR. Crawson. 
Mr. Crawson {with great emotion).- Now I'll tell the 
truth though it carries my own hoy to prison for life. {He 
blows his nose.) My boy, Daniel and he {He points to the 
supposed sick room at one side.) were in my boat. They 
had a quarrel about some lilies they had gathered. Daniel 
has a hot temper, and he struck Jimmy on the head with 



THE SICK BOY S PLAN. 89 

his oar. If he's killed him, why {His emotions are too 

much for him. He goes out.) 

Mr. Dodge enters from the other side. 

Mr. Goodwin. — Have you seen Mr. Crawson? I never 
saw a man so changed. I am told he has not once left 
home or allowed his son to step over the threshold since 
the sad accident. He considers himself pledged to you 
not to let his son escape whatever the consequences may 
be. 

Mr. Dodge {in a kindly tone). — I remember nothing 
of that. I sincerely pity him. 

Servant enters. 

Servant {to Mr. Dodge). — Mr. Crawson, sir, has come 
back again and wants to see you, sir. * 

Mr. Dodge. — Have him come right up here. 

Mr. Goodwin. — Perhaps it would be better for me to 
retire. He may want to speak to you alone. 

Mr. Dodge. — That may be so. You can step right 
into that room, Mr. Goodwin. {Mr. Goodwin goes out.) 

Mr. Crawson enters on other side. 

Mr. Crawson. — I can't stand it any longer. I want to 
know what you intend to do to my son. 

Mr. Dodge. — I don't understand you, neighbor. 

Mr. Crawson. — I mean in case of the worst. I know I 
ought not to come to you in your trouble ; but I can't eat 
nor sleep till it's decided. 

Mr. Dodge. — Do you mean in regard to Daniel who 
struck the blow by which my son was injured ? 

Mr. Crawson. — Yes. 

Mr. Dodge {thoughtfully) . — Does he seem penitent? 



Ljo I HI SICK BOY S PLAN. 

Mr. CRAWSON. — He's done little but cry ever since. 
Mr. Dodge (heartily), — Then tell him I freely forgive 

him, as I hope God will. 

Mr. Crawson {staggering back). — Do you mean to say 
that you sha'n't take him up, — commit him to jail for trial? 

Mr. Dodge. — I never thought of doing such a thing. 
Every day when I pray that God will give me back the life 
of my boy, I pray that this dreadful event may be blessed to 
his companion. You may tell him so. It would be in vain 
for us to ask God to forgive our sins, if we did not from 
the heart forgive each other. (J/e shakes hands sym- 
pathetically with Mr. Crawson and goes out Mr. Craw- 
son sinks down in a chair and covers his face with his hands. ) 

Mr. Goodwin enters unobserved and puts his hands on Mr. 
CRAWS! >x's shoulders. 

Mr. Crawson (starting up and smiling). — I believe it. I 
'believe it. (He seizes Mr. Goodwin's hand and shakes it.) 
I always scoffed at religion. I alius said it did for Sunday 
use; but it wouldn't work for every day wear \ but I be- 
lieve it now; and Mr. Dodge has got it too. I must go 
home and tell my poor boy. (He goes out.) 
Mr. Dodge returns. 

Mr. GOODWIN. — I am very much pleased with what Mr. 
Crawson says and does. 

Mr. Doner, (warmly). — That man's heart is in the right 
place. Why, the doctor said 

Mrs. Dodge enters leading Jtmmie carefully forward. 
Mr. Goodwin {stepping forward and putting his hand on 

the hoy's head.) How is Jimmie today? 

(immik. — I suppose I'm some better, but my head aches 
awfully yet. 



THE SICK BOY'S PLAN. 9 1 

Mrs. Dodge. — There, dear, sit down here {She leads 
him to one side where she sits in a chair and rolls up a 
cushioned stool for hint beside her.) and rest your head in 
mamma's lap. You can go to sleep if you want to. 

Mr. Goodwin {to Mr. Dodge). — You were speaking of 
the doctor, Mr. Dodge. 

Mr. Dodge. — Yes, I was saying that Mr. Crawson, poor 
hard-working man that he is, went to the doctor and in- 
sisted on leaving a hundred dollars to pay for his attend- 
ance on Jimmie. 

Mr. Goodwin.— I hope the doctor did not accept it. 

Mr. Dodge. — He did for the moment to ease Mr. Craw- 
son's mind, but he afterward carried it back to the bank 
and put it to Mr. Crawson's credit again. 

Mr. Goodwin. — That was right. The doctor too has 
his heart in the right place. 

Mr. Dodge. — You will think so when I tell you that he 
has just brought me his bill all receipted. I could not of- 
fend the good man by not accepting it ; but I shall watch 
a chance to do him a favor. 

Mr. Goodwin {starting to go). — Truly, the world has 
better people in it than we sometimes think. {He goes out 
accompanied by Mr. Dodged) 

Mrs. Dodge {looking at Jimmie, who stares up with 
wide-open eyes). — Why, Jimmie, do you feel worse, darling? 

Jimmie. — No, mamma, but I've got a plan. I hope you 
and papa will be willing. {She bends down and kisses him 
on the forehead.) Do you think papa would sell his buggy ? 
I heard him tell Mr. Morse it was too narrow for him, and 
that was the reason he bought the carryall. Now the buggy 
has been standing in the barn a long time, and he don't use 
it but once in a great while. 

Mrs. Dodge {laughing and going to the door). — Husband 



92 THK SICK BOYS PLAN. 

come up here a minute. Here is a boy wants to know if 
you will sell your buggy. 

Mr. Dodge enters, smiling* 

Mr. DODGE. — Who wants it, Jimmie? 

Jimmie. — I do. Oh, papa, please don't laugh. I've been 
thinking of a plan. I don't want Mr. Crawson to take his 
money out of the bank for me. If I hadn't been a bad 
disobedient boy, I shouldn't have gone in the boat, and 
then Daniel couldn't have hurt me. I don't want the doc tor 
not to have his pay because he isn't rich, and he goes to 
see so many poor people who can't give anything. 

Mr. Dodge. — But what has that to do with my be. 
my son? 

Jimmie. — I'll tell you pretty soon, papa. You know the 
money grandma gave me ; and the bank book with m\ 
name in it that's in your desk? 

Mr. Dodge. — Yes, I know. 

Jimmie. — Now, papa, if you'll take the money for yours, 
and let me have the buggy, and get Mr. Morse to fix it up 
and varnish it, then I could give it to the doctor instead of 
his old, rattling thing. 

Mr. Doih;e {thoughtfully). — That's a famous plan, Jimmie. 
{//c rises and walks about room.) I thought you were 
going to buy a watch and gold chain, and a Phi Beta Kappa 
medal like the minister's, and a farm with your money in the 
bank. 

JiMMIE. — Oh, papa ! (In s/ia/ne.) That was when I 
was a little boy. 

Mi*. Dodge (wtth a comical glance at //is wife),— Ah in- 
deed, that makes a difference! (After a short pause?) 
Well, I carx have the buggy-wheel mended, and the whole 
tainted to look as well as new for twenty dollars. So if 



THE SICK BOY S PLAN. 93 

you're inclined to make me a good offer, I think I shall 
take you up. 

Jimmie (eagerly). — Will the money I have be enough? 

Mr. Dodge. — Let me see. There's five hundred dollars 
besides the interest for four years and some little sums 
added. Yes, I think that will do. 

Jimmie. — Oh, papa, I'm so, glad. (He cries for joy and 
Mr. Dodge laughs heartily.) 

Mrs. Dodge. — Hush ! I wouldn't, husband. He only 
knows that he is very happy. Let us take him to his room 
now. He must not have too much excitement. (She puts 
a shawl about him and Mr. Dodge carries him out.) 

Mr. Dodge. — What will the doctor say? Do you think 
he'll know it is his? (All go out.) 



A CHILD'S LOVE. 



CHARACTERS. 

Sarah, a small girl dressed to represent Spring. 

Hannah, another small girl representing Summer. 

Samuel, a small boy representing Autumn. 

David, another small boy representing Winter. 

Situation.— This dialogue is of a religious nature. The 
names are of Old Testament characters. There is 
little or no action in the dialogue, for it is meant Jo > 
little folks. There are four sets of speeches. The first 
set is about the Seasons ; the second set is about Animals ; 
the third set is about the Earth and Heavens ; the last 
set is about personal Friends. These different sets may 
be arranged in different ways, according to circum- 
stances. A tittle -roup of four children may recite 
them all, or there max be four groups of children, or 
anv set max be recited without the other sets. 

The arrangement of the children on the platform will 
depend on the platform and the number of children 
used. If sixteen take part, they max form a f 
square— four in front When these four hare recited. 
they max file to the rear or to the side of the room, 
SO on to the end. If onlx four take fart, each max 
step to the front to recite his stanza and remain stand- 
ing there until the refrain has been repeated by all. 

94 



A child's love. 95 

Sarah. — I love the spring, the gentle spring ; 
I love its balmy air, — 
I love its showers, that ever bring 
To us the flow'rets fair. 
All. — Come, let us sing, we love the spring, 
We love the summer too, — 
While autumn's fruit each one will suit, 
To winter give his due. 
Hannah. — I love the summer's sky so bright ; 
I love the fragrant flowers ; 
I love the long, long days of light : 
But more the shady bowers. 
All. — Come, let us sing, we love the spring, 
We love the summer too, — 
While autumn's fruit each one will suit, 
To winter give his due. 
Sariuel. — I love the autumn's clust'ring fruit, 
That in the orchard lies ; 
I love its ever-changing suit, 
Its trees of brilliant dyes. 
All. — Come, let us sing, we love the spring, 
We love the summer too, — 
While autumn's fruit each one will suit, 
To winter give his due. 
David. — I love stern winter's ice and snow; 
I love his blazing fire ; — 
I love his winds that freshly blow, — 
Yes, winter I desire. 
All. — Come, let us sing, we love the spring, 
We love the summer too, — 
While autumn's fruit each one will suit, 
To winter give his due. 



<)6 a run n'> 1 <>\ i . 

Sarah. — I love the merry birds, that sing, 

So sweet, their morning song, — 
I love to see them on the wing 
Speed gracefully along. 
All. — Yes, we will love the gentle dove — 
The birds that sing so sweet, 
The fishes all, and insects small, 
The beasts we daily meet. 
Hannah. — I love beneath the limpid wave 
To see the fishes glide ; 
I love to watch them as they lave 
So gayly in the tide. 
All. — Yes, we will love the gentle dove, — 
The birds that sing so sweet, 
The fishes all, and insects small, 
The beasts we daily meet. 
Samuel. — I love each prancing, noble steed; 
I love the dog, so true ; 
I love the gentle cow ; indeed, 
Without, what could we do? 
All. — Yes, we will love the gentle dove, — 
The birds that sing so sweet, 
The fishes all, and insects small, 
The beasts we daily meet. 
David. — I love the little busy bee ; 
I love the patient ant : 
For they this lesson teach to me — 
u We need not ever want." 
All. — Yes, we will love the gentle dove, — 
The birds that sing 50 sweet, 
The fishes all, and insects small, 
The beasts we daily meet. 



a child's love. 97 

Sarah. — I love the blue and far-off sky ; 
I love the beaming sun ; 
The moon and stars, that, up on high, 
Shine bright when day is done. 
All. — We love, on high, to see the sky ; 
We love the broad, blue sea; 
We love the earth, that gave us birth ; 
We love the air, so free. 
Hannah. — I love the very air we breathe ; 
I love, when flow' rets bloom, 
At early morn, or dewy eve, 
To inhale the sweet perfume. 
All. — We love, on high, to see the sky; 
We love the broad, blue sea ; 
We love the earth, that gave us birth ; 
We love the air, so free. 
Samuel. — I love the ocean, vast and grand ; 
I love to hear its roar — 
I love its waves that kiss the sand, 
And those that proudly soar. 
All. — We love, on high, to see the sky ; 
We love the broad, blue sea ; 
We love the earth, that gave us birth ; 
We love the air, so free. 
David. — I love the broad and fruitful earth ; 
I love each hill and dale ; 
I love the spot that gave me birth — 
My own dear native vale ! 
All. — We love, on high, to see the sky ; 
We love the broad, blue sea ; . 
We love the earth, that gave us birth; 
We love the air, so free. 



9 g a child's LOVE. 

SARAH. — I love my father, ever kind ; 
1 love to meet his smile, — 
I love to see him pleasure find 
In watching me the while. 
All.— Our friends are dear, that we have here, 
But, better far than all, 
There's One we love, who dwells above, 
And on His name we call. 
Hannah.— I love full well my mother dear ; 
I love her cheering voice, — 
Her gentle words I wait to hear,- 
They make my heart rejoice ! 
All.— Our friends are dear, that we have here, 
But better far than all, 
There's One we love, who dwells above, 
And on His name we call. 
Samuel.— I love my little brother sweet ; 
I love his words of glee,— 
I love his playful glance to meet, 
His beaming smile to see. 
All.— Our friends are dear, that we have here. 
But better tar than all, 
There's One we love, who dwells above, 
And on His name we call. 
D A vrD.— I love my little sister lair; 
I love her rosy cheek, — 
I love with her each joy to share, 
Her happiness to seek. 
AjX.— Our friends are dear, that we have here. 

But better far than all, 
There's One we low. who dwells above, 
And on His name we call. 

(They all how and file out.) 



A MANLY BOY 



CHARACTERS. 

Mr. Jones, a fleshy gentleman in a linen coat, — chairman 

of Committee on Church Decoration. 
Mr. Follins, another gentleman. 
Dick Stuart, a very manly little boy of about ten or twelve 

years. 
A Clerk. 
Situation. — Dick Stuart comes to town on a very hot day 

in August to secure the job of furnishing evergreens for 

the church at Christmas. The men in the office laugh 

at evergreens at Christmas, but promise him the job. 

His honest, feai'less face wins. 

The scene is in the business office #/Mr. Jones. 

There is a desk, a desk chair and other chairs. Mr. 

Follins has a newspaper. The gentlemen should be 

dressed for very hot weather. Dick is neatly but very 

plainly dressed. 
Mr. Follins enters with a newspaper and seats himself. 
Mr. Jones follows, mopping his brow. 

Mr. Jones {seating himself by the desk). — This is terrible, 
terrible ! — Thermometer ninety-eight in the shade. I pity 

the horses 

Clerk enters smiling. 
Clerk. — A boy to see you, Mr. Jones. 
Mr. Jones. — Ha ! a boy is there ? Well, ask him in. 

99 



I0O A MANLY HON'. 

Any body who ventures out in the street under such a sun 
ought to have important business. | Both gentlemen look 
toward the door as the clerk goes out. ) 

Dick enters, taking a handkerchief from his pocket and 

wiping his brow. 

Dick. — I want to see Mr. Jones. 

Mr. FOLLINS (wam'nghis hand toward Mr. fonts), — That 

is Mr. Jones. 

Dick. — Are you the chairman of the committee to de- 
corate St. Stevens' church? 

Mr. Jones {pausing in astonishment). — Hem ! yes, I'm 
the one. 

Dick. — Have you engaged your evergreens for Christmas, 
sir? 

Mr. Jones. — For Christmas? ha! ha! ha! we haven't 
begun to think of Christmas yet, my little fellow. 

Dick (in a matter-of-fact way). — I want to get the job, 
if you please. I'll supply the evergreen as cheap as any- 
body. I know, it's a good while before Christmas ; but 
mother says it's best to be in season when you're to do any- 
thing. 

Mr. [ONES {looks at Mr. Follins and laughs aloud). — 
What is your name? 

Dick. — Richard Monroe Stuart. 

Mr. [ONES. How old are you? 

I )n K. Twelve last March. 

Mr. JONES. — Have you ever decorated a church before? 

Dick. No, sir ; and I don't expect to decorate it this 
year. Mother says it takes tall men with ladders, to do 
that. 1 only want to supply the evergreens, I'll do it as 

cheap as any body, sir. 

Mr. Jones. — Where do you live, Richard? 



A MANLY BOY. IOI 

Dick. — I live in Strawfield, sir. They always call me 
Dick at home. {He smiles.) 

Mr. Jones. — Is your father living, Dick ? 

Dick. — Oh, yes, sir. He is the minister in Strawfield. 

Mr. Jones. — And you are doing business on your own ac- 
count ? 

Dick. — Yes, sir. One of our neighbors has a church to 
decorate every year ■ and he makes a good deal of money. 

Mr. Jones. — I suppose your parents are willing you should 
do this ; I mean that they knew of your coming here ? 

Dick. — Mother does, sir, of course. 

Mr. Jones. — Why not your father, too ? 

Dick. — I want to surprise him. The people are poor ; 
and so they can't give much salary. If I get the job, I'm 
going to buy a new buffalo robe. We've needed one for 
the sleigh a good while. 

Mr. Jones. — Whew! will it ever be cold enough to need 
buffaloes? {Dick laughs.) 

Mr. Follins. — I don't know what Mr. Jones will do ; but 
if I were the chairman of the committee, you should have 
the job. I approve of boys who tell their mothers every- 
thing. 

Dick. — Thank you, sir. There's one thing I haven't 
told mother yet. Last spring our hod got broken. If I 
make enough I want to get her a new one. 

Mr. Jones. — Good, my boy. I guess you'll have enough 
besides for the buffalo robe. If you don't, it won't be a 
very profitable job. Shall you gather the evergreen your- 
self? 

Dick. — Yes, sir, in the vacation at Thanksgiving. Mother 
says she thinks she shall have time to help me wind it 
evenings ; and then, I can keep it fresh down cellar, Do. 
you think, Mr. Jones, I can get the job ? 



102 A MANLY BOY. 

Mr. Jones.— Come here the first of November, and I will 
tell you. Our church is feeling rather poor this year ; but 
it we decorate at all, you shall supply the evergreens. 
Here is my card. Shall you remember? 

I) 1CK> — Oh, yes, sir! I should remember you, and 
where you live, without any card ; but I'll take it if yt u 
please. 

Mr. Follins (drawing out his portmonnaie) — Suppose, 
Dick, that I give you enough to buy a hod now. It's in- 
convenient to do without one. 

DlCK {with pride and some indignation). — I'm much ob- 
liged to you, sir, but I'd rather earn the money for it. 
Mother'd like it a great deal better. ( Turning to Mr. 
Jones.) I'll be sure to be back, sir, the first of November. 
(He b oil's and starts out.) 

Mr. Joxks (holding out his hand). — Good-by, Dick. 
You've got a good mother, I'm sure. 

Dick (shaking the hand). — Yes, sir. She's the best 
woman in the world. (He holds out his hand to Mr. 
Follins who shakes it.) Thank you, sir. (//e goes out.) 

Mr. FOLLINS. — I'd give a hundred dollars it my boy had 
been here to see Dick. He'll make his mark in the world. 
He's got the true grit. 

^1,, [ONES. — I'd give ten thousand it" I had one like him. 
The idea of Christmas decorations on this hot day ! Ha! 
Ha ! Hal 

Mr. Follins.—] must go but I should like to be here 
the first of November. (He shakes hands with Afr. Jones.) 

y\ Rm [ONES. — We shall hear of Mr. Richard Monroe 
Stuart again; or I'm mistaken. (Mr. Jones follows Mr. 
Follins out.) 



A TINY QUARREL. 



CHARACTERS. 

Fanny, a girl with a doll. 

Chrissie, a girl who dislikes dolls. 

Situation. — Chrissie' sf a Iher has given her a pony for Christ- 
mas. Her aunt has told her the story of a horse with 
wings, named Pegasus ; so she has named him Wings. 
Fanny, her cousin, comes with her doll to visit her and 
wants to hear the story. The little girls quarrel a?id 
Fanny is on the point of departing whe?i they make up 
and go off to give the ca7iary a bath. 

A sofa is at the back of the platform and Fanny 
leaves her wraps on it. Near the front is a table with 
a work-basket on it, containing needles, thread, etc. 
There ai-e chairs near by. The platform represents a 
sitting-room. 

Enter Fanny with her doll, and Chrissie. 

Chrissie. — Now, you must take your things right off and 
I'll find you a needle and thread. 

Fanny {taking off her cloak and hood). — Well, then, I'll 
stay, 'cause there isn't much more to do to the cloak, and 
Queen Mab must have it right away. 

Chrissie {she has found a needle all threaded). — There, 
won't that needle and thread do? 

Fanny {coming up to the table and taking the needle). — 
Yes, I guess so. Now, while I'm sewing, you tell me that 
fountain story. 

103 



104 A TINT QUARREL. 

CHRISSIE. — Oh, yes ! Only think. [She settles down in 
a chair.) It was a woman once, that fountain was; but 
she poured her life all out into tears, crying because her 
son was killed. So the fountain is made of tears. 

FANNY {threading her needle). — Bitter and salt, then. 

Chrissik. — No, indeed ; just as sweet and nice as any 
water. Pegasus loved it; and there was a beautiful young 
man, his name was Bel — Bel — well, I declare, I've for- 
gotten, — no, 'twas Bellerophon ; and he had a bridle, and 
wanted a horse. Oh, do you know this horse was white, 
with silvery wings, wild as a hawk ; and once in a while, he 
would fold up his wings, and trot round on the mountain. 
{Fanny yawns, and ties a knot in her thread.) Oh, it was 
a splendid bridle, this man had, made of gold ; and I for- 
got — the mountain the horse trotted round on was called 
Helicon. And the man mounted him, and went up, up, 
till they were nothing but specks in the sky. 

Fanny. — A likely story ! There, you've told enough ! I 
don't want to hear any more such nonsense. 

CHKISSIE. — Well, if you don't want to hear about the 
monster they killed, you needn't ; that's all I can say ; but 
the young man loved that horse ; and he kissed him, too, 
he was so splendid. 

Fanny (looking very disgusted). — Kiss a horse ! 

Chrissik. — Why, I've kissed my pony a great many times 
right between his eyes ; and he almost kisses me. He 
wants to say, " 1 love you." I can see it in his eyes. 

Fanny [she has finished her doll* s cloak and puts it an, 
and holds Up the doll to he admired). — I think her opera 
cloak is very bewitching, don't you, Chrissie? It's trimmed 
with ermine, because she is a queen, and is going to the 
opera. 

Chrissie {jndifferentty), — It looks well enough, but it 



A TINY QUARREL. 105 

isn't ermine. It's only white cat's fur, with black spots 
sewed on. 

Fanny. — Of course it isn't real ermine, but I play that 
it is, and it's just as well. 

Chrissie. — But you know all the while it's a make-believe. 
She hasn't any more sense than a stick of wood, either ; 
and I don't see any sport in playing with dolls. 

Fanny. — And I don't see any sense in fairy stories. Do 
you know what Harry says about you ? He says your head 
is as full of airy notions as a dandelion top. I love Queen 
Mab as if she was my own sister. {She is angry.) You 
know I do, Chrissie. I always thought, if anything should 
happen to Queen Mab, and I lost her, I should certainly 
dress in mourning. Now, you needn't laugh. 

Chrissie {with a curl of her lips). — Oh, I can't help 
laughing, when anybody makes such a fuss over a doll. 
Anything that isn't alive, and hasn't any sense, and don't 
care for you ! I like canary birds, and babies, and ponies, 
and that's enough to like. 

Fanny {twitching at her doll 's dress). — Well, now, that's 
so funny, for the very reason I like my doll is because she 
isn't alive. I wouldn't have been you, Chrissie Redmond, 
when you had your last canary bird, and let him choke to 
death. 

Chrissie. — Oh, no, Fanny, I didn't let him choke ; I 
forgot to put any seed in the bottle and he stuck his head 
in so deep, that he smothered to death. 

Fanny. — I don't know but smothering is as bad as 
choking, and now your new bird will be sure to come to 
some bad end. 

Chrissie {vexed). — You're always saying hateful things. 
I like Jessie Thompson ten times as well, for she's a great 
deal more lady-like. 



106 \ iiw QUARREL. 

Fanny [rising and going toward her wraps), — Well, I 
suppose I can go home. You're such a perfect lady that 
I can't get along with you. 

CHRISSIE (to herself). — Oh, dear, what docs ail my 

tongue? {Fanny puts on her cloak.) Cousin Fanny, I 
wish you wouldn't go. I didn't mean to tell that I liked 
Jessie best ; but it's the real honest truth, and if I should 
take it back, 'twould be a lie. (Fanny puts on her hood 
and ties it with a twitch.) lint I like you ever so much, 
Fanny ; now you know I do. You're hateful sometimes, 
but so am I ; and I can't tell which is the hatefukst. 

Fanny (laughing merrily and throwing off her things), — 
Yes, I'll stay just on purpose to plague you. (She dances 
7-o it ml the room.) 

CHRISSIE. — Oh, goody, what shall we do? Oh, I'll tell 
you. Just come out in the kitchen and see me wash my 
bird. 

Fanny (following with some surprise). — Why, I thought 
birds washed themselves. 

Chkissik. — They do, but Dicky won't. It's all in the 
world I have against Dicky, lie isn't a cold-water bird. 

(They go out.) 



THE MOUSE. 



Adapted from a story, " Toinette"s Philip," by Mrs. C. V. Jamison. 



CHARACTERS. 

Madam Ainsworth, an old lady, the head of a wealthy 
family in New York. 

Mr. Edward Ainsworth, her son. 

Mrs. Laura Ainsworth, wife to Edward. 

Philip Ainsworth, a small boy, adopted son to Edward and 
Laura. 

Lucille Van Norcom, natural grand- daughter to Madam 
Ainsworth and heiress to the family estates. 

Mademoiselle, a French governess to Lucille, of middle age. 

Helen, a young maid to Lucille. 

Situation — Mr. and Mrs. Ainsworth have seen Philip 
selling flowers in a street of New Orleans and have 
adopted him. Madam Ainsworth does not approve the 
choice and makes Philip's life miserable, tvhile she 
hu7nors the fancies #/ Lucille, a delicate and whimsical 
girl, with grand manners. Philip resolves to get even 
with Lucille. He makes a cotton ?nouse and pulls it 
through the room where she is. She faints away. He 
is alarmed and confesses. Madam threate?is to take 
away his white mice, called by him Pere Josef's 
" chickens " after the priest who gave them to him. He 
appeals so pathetically to her that she relents and he 
departs happy. 

107 



ioS I ill. MOUS1 . 

The first scene takes place in a hall, the second in a 
sitting-room, the third in a study or library. Very little 

depends on the furniture used. A la hie and e hairs of 
different kinds are used in all scenes. On the table in 
the first scene there is nothing; in the second scene there 
are hooks and 'magazines and a lady 's work-basket ; in 
the third scene there are letters and papers. These 
parts by proper dressing may all he taken by young 
people. 

Scene I. 

Philip enters with a downcast air. 

Philip. — I don't see what I've done to hurt her. It's 
no use, she won't ever like me, and she treats me worse then 
she does the poodle, Fluff. {He pulls out of his pocket a 

mouse made of wool with a long thread tied to it. ) I'\ e g< >t 
to get even with her, and she will be back in a little while. 
My, won't she be scared, but I've got to have some fun. 
(He places the mouse on the floor, untangles his thread, and 
keeping hold of the thread retires through door on other side. ) 

Enter LUOLLE, GOVERNESS and HELEN the maid in street 

costume. 

Govkkn'kss (jumping up into a chair). — Ah ! Kh! (She 

shrieks.) J'oila .' (She points at the mouse; all se ream. 
Lucille climbs on a table.) 

MADAM {without). — What is it what is the matter? 

Lucille, darling, are you hurt? 

Lucille. - The mice, the white mice. They're in the hall, 

they're running all over the floor. Oh, oh, 1 am so afraid! 

Governess {hysterically^ as she draws her skirts closer 

about her) . Pes soitris. les petites SOUfis, files sont pa /tout ! 
LUCILLE (dancing With terror on the table). Where are 



THE MOUSE. IO9 

they? Oh, where are they? Are they running up the 
table legs? 

Governess. — Sont-elles sous la chaise ? 

Helen {she has been pursuing the mouse with her um- 
brella in vain). — They're gone. They ran into the butler's 
pantry. 

Madam Ainsworth rushes in. 

Madam. — Shut the door quickly before they get out. 
{She hurries to Lucille and clasps the fainting child in her 
arms.) — My dear, my darling ! oh, oh, you are faint. — Run 
and get my vinaigrette. Quick, quick ! fetch some water. 
The poor child is unconscious, (She carries her to the sofa, 
and during a pause tries to revive her.) 

Bassett ente?'s with solemn, impe7ietrable face. 

Bassett. — 'As hanything particular 'appened, Madam? 

Madam (excitedly). — Why, they went into your pantry, 
Bassett. (She kneels by the sofa and rubs Lucille ' s hands.) 

Bassett (rubbing his hands in a puzzled way). — What, 
Madam ? What went into my pantry ? 

Madam. — Why, the mice. Helen saw them run in there 
and you must have seen them. 

Bassett. — I didn't see nothing in my pantry, an' I've 
just come from there. If you'll allow me to say it, Madam, 
there's some mistake. 

Madam. — What ! do you mean to say that they didn't go 
in there — that boy's white mice, that he turned loose into 
the hall on purpose to frighten Miss Van Norcom? 

Bassett. — Bless me, no, Madam ! Master Philip's white 
mice never put a foot in my pantry. 

Helen (with a twinkle of the eye) . — I saw them, or I'm 
sure I saw one ; perhaps it was the only one. 

Governess,— I saw them running all over the floor. 



HO THE MOU 

LuciLLE (she has recovered), — Oh 1 I saw them climbing 
up the table legs. 

Bassett. — If you'll permit me, Madam, I'll venture to 
say that them little hinnocent hanimals of Master Philip's 
hain't never been out of their cage. 

Madam. — How dare you say such a thing, Basse tt? I > > 
you suppose that Miss Van Norcom and the other- 
mistaken? 

BASSETT. — By no means, Madam. If I may be allowed 
to suggest, perhaps hit was what is called ban floptical 
hillusion. 

Madam. — Nonsense, Bassett ! It was that troublesome 
boy's mischief. It is getting unendurable. 

Bassett. — 'Will you hallow me to go to Master Philip's 
room, Madam ? If the little hanimals are not there in 
their cage, I'll hadmit that they are 'id in my pantry. ( He 
ma /■(■ lies out gravely.) 

Madam.— What a shocking boy he is. — Lucille, I'm afraid 
you will be ill. You are so excited, SO nervous. But don't 
fret, darling. (To the Governess.) He must be punished ; 
he should not be allowed to distress Lucille in this way. 
We will help her to her room as soon as Bassett returns. 

Bassett re-enters with a smile. 

Bassett. — Hit's just as 1 hexpected, Madam. Them lit- 
tle hanimals are 'uddled hup together, sound asleep ill their 
cage; and Master Philip is there 'ard at work a-studyin' 
of his Latin. 

Madam {she gathers up Lucille, and Helen and the gover- 
ness assist). — It is certainly very strange, but I am not con- 
vinced. You can go to your pantry, Bassett. And when 
Miss Van Norcom is Letter I will investigate the matter. 
{Shr goes out and all follow except Bassett.) 

Basseti (doming low). — Bless my Cut, I've saved the 



THE MOUSE. Ill 

little pickle this time ; 'e 's safe if my young lady's young 
lady don'.t peach. She sees 'ow it is, an' she's too good to 
blow on the pretty little chap. I think 'e 's safe to get out 
of a bad scrape. (He goes out on other side.) 

Scene II. 

The curtain rises and shows Philip reading a book and Mr. 
and Mrs. Ainsworth talking as if in trouble. 

Mrs. Ainsworth. — It is absurd the way Lucille is en- 
couraged in her silly fancies. 

Mr. Ainsworth. — But it was not only Lucille, my dear. 
They all say they saw something. They could not all be 
mistaken. They could not all be the victims of " han hopti- 
cal hillusion," as Bassett says. Helen declares that she 
saw something, and Helen is not one to indulge in nerves. 

Mrs. Ainsworth. — I don't know. I can't explain it. I 
only know Philip had nothing to do with it. I was in his 
room just before the outcry and the " children," as he calls 
them, were asleep in their cage, just as Bassett said. It is 
so unreasonable of your mother to suppose that Philip would 
let the mice out, and risk losing them, just to frighten 
Lucille. 

Philip. — Mamma, may I go to my room? (He rises 
and comes toward her.) 

Mrs. Ainsworth. — Certainly, my dear, if you wish to. 
You look pale. Aren't you well? 

Philip. — I'm well, thank you, mamma; but — but I'm 
tired. 

Mrs. Ainsworth. — Don't be unhappy, my dear, about 
this foolish affair. I'm sure we shall be able to convince 
Madam Ainsworth, when she is calmer, that you had nothing 
to do with it. (He hesitates a moment, looks at her, kisses 
her warmly and goes out.) 



112 THE MOUSE. 

Mr. AlNSWORTH (after </ pause). — Philip knows more 
about this than we think he does. I can tell by his manner 
that he has something on his mind. 

Mrs. AlNSWORTH. — My dear, you are becoming strangely 
like your mother, with your absurd suspicions ! How could 
the mice be asleep in their cage and running about the hall 
at the same time? I'm not surprised at your mother's un- 
reasonableness. She dislikes the poor boy, and takes every 
means of showing it by her unkind accusations. But for 
you to suspect Philip 1 You who know how truthful he is ! 

Mr. Ainsworth (cautiously). — Did he say he knew noth- 
ing about it? 

Mrs. Ainsworth. — I did not ask him. I would not hurt 
him so much as to have him think that I doubted his word. 
All he said was that the mice were not out of their cage; 
and I know he spoke the truth. 

Mr. \i\sworth. — Well, Laura, we won't discuss it any 
more. But if I find that Philip is keeping anything back, 
I shall be greatly disappointed in him, for he's not the boy 
I thought he was. 

Mrs. AlNSWORTH. — There is no reason why he should 
keep anything back. He is very brave, and not at all 
afraid to tell the truth. He is always willing to bear the 
consequences of his little pranks. He is never malicious — 

Only mischievous — and where others would laugh at his 
harmless tricks, your mother treats them as if they were 
crimes. If you listen to your mother, she will succeed in 
turning you against the poor little fellow, liven now, 1 
think you have (hanged toward him. He does not interest 
you as he did. 

MR. AlNSWORTH. — Now, my dear, you are unjust. I 
have not changed. 1 love Philip dearly, butl am not blind 
to his faults, and I do think he is I little — just a little — 



THE MOUSE. 113 

malicious toward Lucille. Wouldn't it be better to speak 
to him gently and request him not to play any more prac- 
tical jokes on that nervous, foolish child ? Mother is so 
displeased, it will end in trouble between us if it goes on, 
and you must see how unpleasant that would be. 

Mrs. Ainsworth {rising and pacing to and fro*). — I am 
not disposed to make mountains out of mole-hills. The 
only thing for us to do is to take the boy away as soon as 
possible. We can never be happy here with him ; your 
mother's dislike to him is unaccountable. {She starts out.) 

Mr. Ainsworth. — Don't excite yourself, Laura. xA.ssoon 
as we hear that the priest is back we will start for New 
Orleans, and we may learn something from him about the 
boy that will relieve us of all responsibility. {She goes out.) 
Poor woman ! She is changed ! Why, the boy fascinated 
me the first time I saw him selling flowers in the street in 
New Orleans. Even after I had him dressed up and took 
him to our rooms, she was only half interested in him. And 
now she thinks I am changed toward him ! — Well, well, we 
must go back to New Orleans and see if the old priest 
knows anything about his parents. The boy seems eager 
to return, too. To-morrow or next week at the farthest ! — 
Ah ! I have other matters to attend to ! {He goes out.) 

Scene III. 

Private room of Madam Ainsworth. Madam Ainsworth 
enters and sits at her desk opening letters. There is a 
knock on the door. She rises and opens it. In sur- 
prise, she steps back a little. 

Philip {still outside). — If you please, madam, may I 
come in? I want to tell you something. 

Madam {coldly). — Certainly, come in. I am very busy 



114 ["HE MOUSE. 

this morning, but I will listen to what you have to say. 
(She sits again at her desk and opens lett\ 

Philip enters and stands near by. 

Phii.U'. — I want to tell you about yesterday. It wouldn't 
be right not to tell you. 1 would have told last night, only 
for Mr. Butler. I don't want you to blame him. He wasn't 
to blame, he didn't know about it. I hid behind his pantry - 
door, when he was out. He didn't even help me mak 
he never saw it. You won't blame him, will you? (//<• 
looks imploringly at her.) 

Madam (sarcastically). — Oh, Bassett was not an accom- 
plice, then? 

PmLlP. — He didn't know until after it was done. But 
he said he would stand by me. 1 don't mind lor myself. 
You can punish me good. But poor Mr. Butler Bassett — 
I like him, and I don't want him punished. 

Madam. -Oh, I see, you are great friends. Well, go OD 
with your interesting developments. 1 don't in the least 
understand what contemptible tricks you were up to. 

Philip. — Why, you see, Lucille was so cross to me that I 
wanted — 1 wanted to pay her off. 1 wanted to frighten 
her. But I didn't want to make her ill. 1 wouldn't hurt 
her for the world. I wouldn't hurt any girl, even if she 
did — even if she did curl her Up at me. So 1 just thought 
it would be fun to make something like a mouse run across 
the floor. 

Madam (triumphantly). — Then there was something! 

l'nii.ii'. — Yes, there was. They did see something ; but 
it wasn't one of the " children." 

M IDAM. — What was it? 

l'liiiii'. — Why, it was a mouse, but not a live mouse. 1 
made it out of wool, and put on a little tail of tape, and 



THE MOUSE. 115 

the two eyes were jet beads off of Mademoiselle's fringe. 
I tied a long black thread to it, and put it in the hall just 
where Lucille would see it when she came in ; and I made 
it jump quickly by jerking the thread ; and when I had 
frightened them well, I pulled it into the pantry. Helen 
tried to kill it with the umbrella ; but she couldn't get a 
lick at it. Then Lucille fainted, and Mr. Butler came in 
and told me to run up the back stairs. So you see that 
was why I said it wasn't one of the " children." (He draws 
a long breath.} 

Madam (angrily) . — Really, really ! What — what decep- 
tion ! — what falsehood ! And my son has boasted of the 
boy's truthfulness ! 

Philip (proudly). — It wasn't a falsehood. I never tell 
lies. It was only a — a mistake. It was because I went in 
Mr. Butler's pantry, and I didn't want him blamed. That's 
why I didn't tell at first. I'm very sorry now that I did 
it. I'm very sorry that it made Lucille ill. And I came 
to ask you to forgive me. 

Madam (indignantly) . — Forgive you ! Indeed, I shall 
do nothing of the kind. I shall insist on your being punished 
severely. You must be taught that you can't trifle in this 
way with me. 

Philip (bravely). — Well, I don't mind. You can punish 
me. Only please don't blame Mr. Butler. 

Madam. — I shall settle with Bassett at my leisure. And 
I shall order him to take those nasty little vermin out of 
the house immediately. 

Philip (horrified). — What vermin? You don't mean 
Pere Josef 's " children," do you ? They're not vermin. 
They're just as good and quiet — and they're neat too ! I 
keep their cage as clean as can be. Oh, you don't mean 
that they must go? 



I 1 6 Mil MO! 

Madam {with a cold, matter-of-fact tone and manner, 
she turns to her desk). — I certainly do. I have had enough 
trouble since you brought the horrid little things here. I 
shall give the order to have them taken away at once. I 
don't (are what becomes of them. 

Philip {advancing and laying his hand on her arm). — Oh, 
Madam, //ease don't send them away. I can't let them go. 
Pere Josef left them in my care. Oh, please, please, don't! 

Madam. — It is no use to make a fuss. I will not allow 
them to stay in my house ; that is final. Now you may 
I am too busy to be troubled with such nonsense. (She 
shakes off the little hand.) 

Philip {overcome l>y sorrow, he clasps his hands and 
makes a pathetic appeal.) — They're so little ! They don't 
know any one but me. They'll be afraid of Strang 
They may starve, they may get lost, and they can't find 
their way home, and what will Pere Josef say when he sees 
me if I don't bring his "children" back? I promised to 
take care of them, and I can't if you send them away. 1 
love them, so; they are so little and cunning and they love 
me. They're all I've got to care for. Don't send them 
away, please don't ! {She rises and looks at him.) We're 
going home soon. Please let them stay with me till wi 
Oh, please do, and I'll be so grateful. I'll try to be good ; 
I won't tease Lucille again. I'll be so glad if you'll let 
them stay. 

Madam {she turns away an instant to get control of her- 
self). — There, there, child! —that will dd. Don't go on as 
if you were insane. If vour heart is so set on those horrid 
little creatures, keep them, and oblige me by never speak- 
ing of them again. Now wipe vour eyes and go to vour 
room, and in the future try to treat Lucille properly. 

Philip {smiHng rapturously). — Oh, thank you, thank 



THE MOUSE. 117 

you! I'll never forget how good you are, and you won't 
blame Mr. Butler, will you ? 

Madam. — I'll consider it. He deserves to be reproved, 
but for your sake I may overlook his fault. (He hurries 
out.) It is certainly very strange. (She has followed him 
with her eyes till he has gone.) The boy quite unnerved 
me. I really felt for a moment as though he belonged to 
me. (She goes out on other side.) 



NELL'S CHRISTMAS STOCKING. 

CHARACTERS. 

Nell, a little girl, five or six rears old, of happy tntst/it/ 

face. 
Huldah, an older girl, of a thoughtful face. 

Louis, a manly courageous box, a little older than HULDAH. 

Cap, the leader of a group of cowboys. 

Jim, Dick, two other cowboys. 

Mrs. Jones, a benevolent lady of middle age. 

Situation. — 7he three children after the death of father and 
mo the)-, have crossed the prairie in a covered wagon. 
They hare now fust stopped for the night on the out- 
shirts of a town. It is Christmas Eve and all are 
thinking of the parents that are gone. The older 
children go to the village to buy presents for Nell. 
While they are away the cowboys ride up, take in the 
situation and depart. Later on, one of them fills the 
stockings t<> overflowing. The children are delighted 
the next day, and Mrs. Jones invites them all to het 
home in the village where they aftenoards live in com- 
fort and happiness. 

The children should be dressed in worn clothes, but 
loit/i some neatness. The cowboys should be in 
neglige and picturesque costume, with a pistol and knife 
at the belt, ana slouch hats. 

118 



NELL'S CHRISTMAS STOCKING. II9' 

The platfor?n should look like an open prairie with 
the rear of the wagon just showing in the corner. 
There is needed only enough of the wagon to pin the 
stockings to and to form the flaps through which Nell 
pokes her head to speak to Cap. Of course thei'e would 
be no chairs,- — but only a stool or two. On one side is 
a fire with a kettle suspended over it on three sticks. 

Scene I. 

Louis, Huldah and Nell enter, apparently from the other 
side of the wagon. 

Nell. — Say, Louie. v 

Louis. — Well. 

Nell. — Is to-morrow Christmas ? 

Louis. — Yes. 

Nell (she jumps up and down). — Oh, goody ! (Louis 
and Huldah turn away in sorrow.) We'll have another 
tree, won't we, Louie? 

Louis. — I — I — I'm afraid not. 

Nell. — Nor nothing in my stocking? 

Louis (feeling in his pockets and b lightening up). — Yes, yes, 
little one. You shall have something in your stocking, any- 
how. 

Nell. — Can't we have even a little teenty — tonty tree? 

Louis. — I'll see, dear. 

Nell. — Ain't there any old Mr. Santa Claus in this country? 

Louis. — I guess so. 

Nell. — Tell,- you must send him a letter soon as we get 
to that town, and tell him I want a tree, a big tree, with forty 
thousand bushels of things on it, and I shall go right to 
work now and pray real hard for what I want most. What 
shall I pray for for you, Louie ? 

Louis. — Oh, nothing. 



120 



NELL'S CHRISTMAS STOCKING. 



Nell.— What, not even some merlasses candy? 
Louis.— Oh yes, I'd Like that 

Nell.— Well, I'll ask for that for you, and for a tovefy 
blue silk dress andaperlanno to make music on for Huklah. 
(Louis and Huldah a drams apart to the front of the plat- 
form while Nell in the rear quietly tak r stockings 
and pins them upon the outside of the wagon c< ver. | 

1 ours {to Huldah apart). —We ain't got but forty cents 
in the world, Huklah, but I'd rather spend it all than have 
her get up in the morning and find them stockings empty. 

Huldah (promptly).— So would I. I couldn't bear to 
have her find nothing at all in them. 

Louis.— I reckon she'd sleep sound enough and not 
waken if you and 1 went up into the town and bought her 
something for her stockings. 

Huldah.— Oh, yes ; she never opens her eyes after she 
once gets to sleep, and there's no danger of her coming to 

harm here. 

Nei l (she has just fastened her stockings up on the wagon 
cover ) — There now, it won't be the leastest bit of trouble 
for Santy Claus to stop here on his way to the town, and he 
can fill my stockings without even getting out ot his sleigh. 
(She climbs into the wagon.) 

Huldah (poking her head under the flaps oj wagoncover). 
—Now go to sleep, Nellie, as quick as yon can and then 

Louis and 1 will see if we can find Santa Clans. (To Louts.) 

she is pretty tired and will drop to sleep very quickly, she 
will be asleep before we can get to town no,. (Aj 
pause as they are gathering their cooking kettles.) 1 wisn 

we could have a home somewhere, bonis. 

| oms.— We will, sometime. I want to get back cast to 

the places I've heard mother and father talk about 

Huldah.— Yea, you said that when we nrst started evci 



NELLS CHRISTMAS STOCKING. 12 1 

so long ago but do you think the horse will pull us so far? 

Louis. — I don't know, but pretty soon we will get to a 
town where I can find work and we'll stop there till spring. 
Perhaps you and Nell can go to school a few months. 

Huldah {cheerfully). — We'll get along some way, I reckon. 
Come, let's be off. {They go out.) 

After some noise outside, enter cautiously three cowboys, 
Cap, Jim, and Dick. 

Cap. — That'd be a gay old rig to ride up an' down Fifth 
Avenoo in, wouldn't it? 

jim. — It's seen mighty tough times, that's sure. Wonder 
where the owner of such an elegant outfit is? If he ain't 
careful somebody '11 steal it. It ain't safe to let valuables 
lie round loose in this country for — well, I'll be everlastingly 
ding-fiddled — look there ! {He points with his whip at the 
stockings.) If some youngster ain't hung up its stockings 
for Christmas! {Cap and Dick approach neaj'er.) 

Cap {catching hold of the stockings). — Well, old Santa 
Claus ain't filled it yet and I don't reckon — hello ! {He 
starts back in surprise as Nell pushes her head through the 
flaps at the rear of the wagon.) 

Nell. — Are you Mister Santa Claus? {All three men 
laugh.) 

Dick. — She caught you that time, Cap. 

Cap {to Nell). — Well, who be you anyhow? 

Nell. — I'm Helen May Hayden. 

Cap. — Oh, you be, be you? Where's all your folks? 

Nell. — I ain't got none, only just Louie and Huldah, 
and I s'pose they've gone off to hunt Santa Claus. Do you 
s'pose they'll find him? 

Cap. — It's hard telling whether they will or not. What 
if they don't? 



,_., NELL'S * HRISTMAS STOCKINC 

Nell {puckering up face to cry).--!*** Impose my stock- 
ings '11 be empty in the morning, and they ain't never been 

empty a Christmas yet. 

Cap.— Where 'd you come from, anyhow? 

Nell (thrusting out one arm).— From the mountain, 
way off yonder. 

Cap.— And your dad didn't come with you? 

Nell.— He couldn't— he's dead. 

Cap. — Nor your marm? 

Nell.— She's dead too. 

Cap.— And there ain't nobody in the (art with you? 

N ELL .— No, ma'am— nobody. 

C^ —Who's Louie and Huldah? 

Nell- My brother and sister— and they're splendid. 
They'll find Santy Clans. Louie's got forty rents for him. 
I heard him tell Sis so. 

CAP.-Oh,he has? Well I guess you'd better erawl 
back there and snnggle down among the bed-elothes till 
they come back. That's what you'd better do. ( iood night 
' Nki i -(iood night, mister. It you see Santv Clans you 11 
tell him 'bout my stockings? 1 wish you a Merry Chin* 

mas. (She withdraws into the cart and thry go of.) 

Cap. Oh, yes. Good night, and sleep tight. 
Nell.— Good night. 
Louisa^ Huldah return quietly andput an orange in 

one stocking, ami a toy lamb and a small ba 

candy in the other. 
Lows.—! wish I could have got the big doll. How her 

eves would have sparkled ! 
' HuLDAH . An( i i know she'd 'most go crazy over that 

set of little dishes if she'd got 'em. 

Loots, Well, well, perhaps another tune. [They i 

round the cart.) 



nell's Christmas stocking. 123 

Cap enters very stealthily with his arms full of bundles. He 
puts a fine doll, a purse of money and sotne dishes in the 
stockings, and ties some bundles to the cart. 

Cap {after he has disposed of his bundles he stands off and 
looks at them an instant). — Ah ! if she hadn't died — and 
the child — its name was Nell too — a different fellow I'd 
have been. Perhaps I'd be settled down now in this very- 
town, instead of scampering over the prairie like a wild cat. 
Well, it is not to be, an' I s'pose there's an end of it but — 
(He goes off) 

Scene II. 

The next morning early, Louis comes round the wagon. 

Louis {in wild excitement). — Huldah ! Come here! come 
here quick ! Look at that. 

Huldah enters hastily. 

Huldah. — Why the very doll ! Who could have done 
it all? Where did they come from? 

Nell enters cheerily. 

Nell. — You did find Santa Claus, didn't you? I told 
him you'd find him. 

Louis. — Told who? 

Nell. — Oh, a real nice man. He came just after you'd 
gone. I thought he was Santy Claus and so I looked out 
and asked him and they all laughed. 

Huldah. — Who laughed, child ? Were there more than 
one? 

Nell. — Oh, yes, there were three of 'em ; and one came 
up to the wagon and felt of the stockings and the others 
stood over there {she points to where they stood.) and kept 
laughing. I didn't like them. 



124 NELLS CHRISTMAS STOCKING. 

Huldah. — What did they say to you? 

NELL. — They didn't say anything to me. He talked to 
me. He was real nice. 

Louis. — Well, what did he say ? 

NELL. — He wanted to know where my father and my 
mother was and who you were — and 1 told him. 

1 1 1 i i)\ii. — And then? 

NELL {she has been untying the dishes). — Oh ! Oh ! Oh ! 
{She dances with delight) What pretty dishes J Can't we 
all eat out of 'em to-day? This is Christmas, you know. 

Huldah. — Yes, I guess so. 

Louis. — But, Nell, did you tell us all the men did? 

Mrs. Jones enters. 

Huldah {to Louis). — Oh, here is the lady we saw at the 
church. {To Mrs. Jones.) Good morning, ma'am. 

Mrs. Jones. — Oood morning, children. Is this where 
you live ? {She looks about her.) What a hard time you have 
had ! 

I/X'is. — Oh, not so awful bad, ma'am. We've managed 
to get along. If I could only get a job somewhere, we'd all 
stay and work. 

Mrs. Jones. — Well, now, this is Christmas and let's not 
worry about anything at all. Would you all like to come 
to my home and eat your Christmas dinner.' 1 Would this 
little girl? (She holds out her hand to .Yell.) 

Nil i. Yrs'm, if Louie and Huldah are going. Can 1 
take my doll? 

Mrs. Jones. — Certainly, of course, why, this is a very 
pretty new doll. 

Nell. Yes, Santa Clans brought it. 

HULDAH. — Mrs. Jones, do we look respectable enough to 
go to your house to dinner? 



NELL'S CHRISTMAS STOCKING. 1 25 

Mrs. Jones. — Oh, yes, indeed. 

Louis. — Well, then we'll come. (To Nell.) Show Mrs. 
Jones your other presents, Nellie. 

Nell. — Oh, yes, come this way, Mrs. Jones. (She leads 
her out.) 

Huldah. — She is a very kind lady, Louis, and perhaps 
she will help us get work. 

Louis. — I think perhaps we are through with our journey 
in this old wagon. The poor old horse has done his work. 

Huldah. — We'll miss him, won't we? But I hope we 
can all live together, whatever we do. (They go out.) 



FATHER TIME'S GRANDDAUGHTERS. 

CHARACTERS 

Old Year, a maiden in torn and stained garments andworn- 

out shoes. 
New Year, a younger maiden, in light, airy, fresh costume, 

with bright ribbons, etc. 
Father Time, a youth, dressed as an old man, wrinkled and 

bent with age, with a long white beard. 
Watchman, another youth, dressed in working clothes. 

Situation.—,/ little before midnight, Old Year gathers het 

possessions together to depart from the town. While 
she waits on the steps of the town or city hall, she is 
joined by New Year, her sister. With great affection 
they greet each other and converse together, until fust 
as the bell strikes midnight FATHER Timk appears and 
ushers of OLD YEAR to join the sisters who hare pre- 
ceded her. Then NEW YEAR, too, departs about her 
01 on new duties. 

Old Yi \k carries in one hand a capacious bandbox, 
from which protrude all manner of things, and under 
' her arm an immense folio, like the annual volume of a 
newspaper. Ne* Yi ar carries only a small and pretty 
basket on her arm. FATHER TlME is dnssed like a 
former and carries a sickle. The \\ u> ..man has at 

i:() 



FATHER TIME'S GRANDDAUGHTERS. 1 27 

his belt a bunch of keys and carries a lantern in his 
hand. 

The dialogue takes place on the steps of the town 
hall, in the light of the full moon. Have the steps 
arranged at the side of the platform. 

Enter Old Year, slowly and tvearily. She approaches the 
steps and sinks down upon them. After resting a 
moment she places her bandbox carefully in full view 
at one side ; then she draws the great folio out from 
under her arm and opens it upon her knees to look it 
over again. 

Enter New Year, gayly. 

New Year {after greeting Old Year cordially') . — Well, my 
dear sister, you look almost tired to death. What have you 
been about during your short stay here ? 

Old Year (disconsolately). — Oh, I have it all recorded 
here in my Book of Chronicles. There is nothing that would 
amuse you ; and you will soon get sufficient knowledge of 
such matters from your own personal experience. It is 
tiresome reading. (She turns over the leaves of the folio.) 

New Year. — What have you been doing in the political 
way? 

Old Year. — Why, my course here in the United States 
though perhaps I ought to blush at the confession, — my 
political course has been full of changes, sometimes for the 
party in power and sometimes against it. Historians will 
hardly know what to make of me in this respect. But the 
Democrats 

New Year. — I do not like these partisan remarks. We 
shall part in better humor if we avoid all political discussion. 

Old Year (with a sigh of relief). — With all my heart. 
I have already been tormented half to death with squabbles 



128 FATHER time's GRANDDAUGHTERS. 

of this kind. I care not if no whisper of these matters ever 
reaches my ears again. Vet they have occupied my atten- 
tion so much of the time that 1 scarcely know what else to 
tell you. 

New Year. — Have all the contentions been between 
political parties? 

Old Year. — No. In other ways Mood has streamed in 
the name of Liberty and of Patriotism ; but it must remain 
for some future, some far-distant Year to tell whether or 
no those holy names have been rightfully invoked. 

New Year {hopefully). — Have energies been wasted, or 
have life and happiness really been thrown away? 

Old Year. — Well, who can tell? The ends of ten appear 
unwise and still oftener remain unaccomplished. But the 
wisest people and the best keep a steadfast faith in the up- 
ward and onward progress of mankind, and they hold that 
the toil and anguish of the path serve to wear away the 
imperfections of the Immortal Pilgrim, and will be felt no 
more when they have served their purpose. 

New Year (exultingly). — Perhaps 1 shall see that happy 
day I 

Old Year (smiling gravely) . — 1 doubt it. You will soon 
grow weary of looking for it and will turn for amusement 
(as I have often turned) to the affairs of some sober little 
city like this. 

New Year (caressing her) . — Why do you speak so? 

Old Year (ironically), — Oh, it would make you laugh to 
see how the game of politics is here played in miniature. 
The Capitol at Washington is the great chess-board, but 
even here burning Ambition finds its fuel ; hen rated 

gesture.) Patriotism speaks boldly in the people's behalf 

and virtUOUS Economy demands retrenchment in the emolu- 
ments ol a lamplighter. 



FATHER TIMES GRANDDAUGHTERS. I 29 

New Year. — Do you suppose I will talk like that in a 
year from now ? 

Old Year. — Yes, yes. You may talk much worse. You 
will know more of human weakness and strength, passion 
and policy ; for you can study them here almost as well as 
at the nation's centre. And there is this advantage that, 
be the lesson ever so disastrous, its tiny scope still makes 
the beholder smile. 

New Year (she puts her hand over her sister's mouth for 
an instant). — Stop ! stop ! stop! Tell me what you have 
done to improve the city ? From what I have seen it looks 
old and worn. 

Old Year {reflecting and turning over more pages of the 
big folio) * — Ah, yes ! the street railways have been run by 
electricity for many a day, but the strangers that come here 
are more and more numerous because you see that they 
can depart more readily. There is a perceptible increase 
of oyster shops and other such establishments. But a more 
important change awaits this venerable town. An im- 
mense number of musty prejudices will be carried off by 
the free circulation of* society. But (She coughs.) my 
breath is almost gone. (She closes the big book.) I must 
be going. (She rises with the big book under her arm and 
seizes her bandbox.) 

New Year (detaining her). — Wait, sister, a moment 
more. Tell me what is in that great bandbox. 

Old Year (she puts down book and opens bandbox). — 
These are merely a few trifles which I have picked up in 
my rambles. I am going to deposit them in the receptacle 
of things past and forgotten. We sisterhood of Years never 
carry anything really valuable out of the world with us. 

* Many local items may be inserted in this speech and in the other 
historical speeches of the Old Year. 



130 FATHER TIMES GRANDDAUGHTERS. 

Here [She pulls out a bundle.) are patterns of most of the 
fashions which I brought into vogue. You will supply their 
place with others. Here, put up in little china pots {She 
products a small pot.) like rouge is a considerable lot of 
beautiful women's bloom ; the disconsolate fair ones owe 
me a bitter grudge for stealing it. 

New Yi ar. — Of course they owe you a grudge. 

Old Year. — I have likewise a quantity of men's dark 
hair. I have left gray locks instead, or none at all. The 
tears of widows and others who have received comfort 
during the last twelve months are preserved {She brings out 
an essence bottle.) in some dozens of essence bottles, well 
corked and sealed. I have several bundles of love-letters, 
eloquently breathing an eternity of burning passion which 
grew cold almost before the ink was dry. Moreover here 
is an assortment of many thousand broken promises and 
other broken ware, all very light and packed into little 
space. The heaviest article is a large parcel of disappointed 
hopes ; a little while ago they were buoyant enough to in- 
flate a balloon. 

New Year. — I have a fine lot 01 hopes here in my basket 
They are a sweet-smelling flower— a kind of rose. 

OLD Year {diseouragingly). — They soon lose their per- 
fume. What else haw you brought to insure a welcome 
from these discontented mortals? 

New Year (with a smile of hesitation). — Why, to tell 
the truth, little or nothing else, sister, except a few new 
Annuals and Almanacs, and some New Year's gifts lor tin- 
children. But I heartily wish well to poor mortals, and 
mean to do all I can tor their improvement and happiness. 

Old Year {shaking her head). — That is a good resolu- 
tion, and by the way {She turns to her bandbox. | I have a 
plentiful assortment of good resolutions, which have grown 



FATHER TIMES GRANDDAUGHTERS. 131 

so stale and musty that I am ashamed to carry them farther. 
Only for fear that the constable would arrest me, I should 
toss them into the street at once. There are many other 
things in my bandbox, but the whole lot would not fetch a 
simple bid, even at an auction of worn-out furniture ; and 
as they are worth nothing either to you or anybody else, I 
will not trouble you with a longer list of them. 

New Year. — And must I also pick up such worthless 
luggage in my travels? 

Old Year. — Most certainly, and consider yourself for- 
tunate if you have no heavier load to bear. And now, my 

Enter slowly Father Time. He remains in the rear for a 

moment. 
dear sister, I must bid you farewell. 

Time {slowly and solemnly). — Come, come, grand- 
daughter, your sisters are waiting for you to join them. 
There remains only a brief moment for me to offer your 
younger sister my customary advice as she enters on her 
new duties. {He turns to New Year.) Expect no gratitude 
nor good-will from this peevish, unreasonable, inconsiderate, 
ill-intending, and worse behaving generation. However 
warmly people may seem to welcome you, they will still be 
complaining, still craving what is not in your power to give, 
still looking forward to some other Year for the accomplish- 
ment of projects which ought never to have been formed, 
and which if successful would only provide new occasions 
of discontent. If these ridiculous people ever see anything 
tolerable in you, it will be after you are gone forever. 

New Year. — But shall I not try to leave men wiser than 
I find them? I will offer them freely whatever good gifts 
Providence permits me to distribute, and will tell them to 
be thankful for what they have, and humbly hopeful for 



x ^ 2 FATHER riME'S GRANDDAUGHTERS. 

more. And surely, if they are not absolute fools, they will 
be happy, and will allow me to be a happy Year. For my 
happiness must depend on them. {She sits down on the 

steps.) 

Old Year {sighing).— Alas, for you, then, my poor sister I 
{She gathers up her burden.) We, grandchildren of Time, 
are born to trouble. 

Time. — Happiness, my children, dwells in the mansions 
of Eternity. We can only lead mortals thither, step by 
step, with reluctant murmurings, and ourselves must perish 
on the threshold. {The beU begins to strike the hot 
midnight) But hark! {Turning to Old Year.) Come 
away with me. Thy task is done. {They go out.) 

New Year {she rises). Sow, my task begins. Ah! 
here comes the watchman. 

Enter Watchman from opposite side. 
Watchman {looking at her curiously). — A happy New- 
Year ! 

New Year.— Thank you kindly, sir! {She picks a rose 
from her basket and gives it to him. ) May this flowei keep 
a sweet smell, long after I have bidden you good-by ! {She 
trips gayly out of the door through which Watchman entered.) 
Watchman {standing a moment and looking after her, 
then putting the flower to his nose.) — It smells sweet enough 
now ! ( He smells it again and goes out on the side opposite 
to his entrance.) 



INTERMEDIATE DIALOGUES 
AND PLAYS 



THE SCHOOLMASTER. 



CHARACTERS. 

Timothy Tullyhorn, Dr. Pellet, members of the School Com- 
mittee. 

Samuel Simpson, {alias Winthrop Getchell Peabody) , 
schoolmaster. 

Situation. — This scene takes place in an ordinary room or 
parlor, fitted with chairs, tables, pens, paper and ink. 
The furniture should be arranged for a hearing of 
candidates, Dr. Pellet on one side of room by a table, 
Tullyhorn near centi'e, and the schoolmaster o?z the 
other side. Simpson should come in opposite Dr. 
Pellet. 

Enter Samuel Simpson, a well-dressed young man, with cane 
and carpet-bag. 
Simpson. — Well, here I am ! No more college studies 
for three months. Old Dartmouth left behind for the 
season, and a fine prospect of a pleasant winter teaching 
school in this village, and boarding, I suppose, at old Tully- 
horn's, my father's friend ; curious old fellow, rough, but 
likes a good joke ; is " well-off," as they say here, and has 
a daughter who will divide my attention with the school. 
On the whole an agreeable prospect for the winter. Only 
I should have been here two days ago to have met the com- 
mittee, and now it's Saturday. A joke, if my sore throat 
has cost me the school 1 But what's this ? (Sees a written 



2 THE SCHOOLMASTER. 

notice on the door and reads it aloud.) " The school com- 
mittee will meet in this room on Saturday afternoon at three 
o'clock to examine candidates tor teaching the school in 
District No, 5." Well, well, {Consults his watch.) here 
it ib half-past two and more, and they are to meet in this 
old tavern-parlor. (Meditates?) Don't understand it ! — 
Yes, I do; old "Tully" is afraid 1 won't come, and this 
notice is to catch somebody else. I'll play a joke on him. 
(Looks out of the' window), and pretty quick, too, for I see 
him coming. (He goes out.) 

Enter Ti'llyhokn and Pellet, both in an anxious state of 

mind, and sit down by the tabic. 

TULLYHORN. — Singular! I say, doctor, never knew the 
young man to fail before; always prompt, like his father; 
he has made many an appointment to come to my house 
and never was behind an hour. It's strange ! and school 
must begin on Monday. ( Walks about.) 

PELLET. -Some one may turn up by three o'clock, and if 
SO, we'll examine him, and may be find a teacher just as 
good as this Sim Sampson. 

TULLYHORN. - Samuel Simpson. 

Pellet. — Well, Sam Simpson, then ; whatever his name 
is don't matter, unless he puts in an appearance. (Glances 

out of the window.) But there's a queer-looking man 

coming into the yard ; perhaps — but it can't be ! Well, I 

wish 

/'Inter S\\n 1 1. SlMPSON, disguised in a slouch hat, long loose 
overcoat, large overshoes, and with an old faded um- 
brella. He walks ///• and down in a very awkward 

manner, and looks about with staring ey 

TrjLLYHORN (aside to Pellet). What do vou make of 

him. doctoi ? 



THE SCHOOLMASTER. 3 

Pellet, — A candidate, I guess. 

Tullyhorn. — But he won't do. Just look at him ! But 
I say, doctor, we'll have some fun out of him, if we can 
keep our faces straight. {He speaks loudly to Simpson.) — 
Good day, sir. • 

Simpson {turns quick about and seizes Tullyhorn' s hand) . 
— Good day, yourself, too ! And I ain't well neither ; bad 
cold, sore throat, headache, and sick ! bother it ! 

Pellet. — Be seated, sir. {Offers a chair.) Take a 
chair. 

Simpson. — No, thank you ; they allers lam folks down 
our way to stan' up afore their betters. Be you the school 
committee men? 

Pellet. — Yes, sir ; we have that honor. 
• Simpson. — Honor, do you call it? I guess as how I 
remember the old copy-book, " Honor and fame from low 
perdition rise." D'ye 'member it, I say — you .' {Punches 
Tullyhorn in the ribs with his umbrella.) 

Tullyhorn {sharply) . — Your umbrella is as much out of 
place as your quotation. We are members of the school 
committee. 

Simpson. — I's only a-joking with this 'ere p'int of my 
'breller ; it's a way I have. Well, I come to be zamined. 

Pellet. — Very well, sir ; what might your name be ? 

Simpson. — It might ht Balaam, but 'taint; but if you're 
sot on knowing, they call me, down our way, Winthrop 
Getchell Peabody. 

Tullyhorn. — What is your place of residence ? 

Simpson. — My what, sir? 

Tullyhorn. — I merely wish to know where you live. 

Simpson. — Why didn't you say so, if that's what you want 
to know? I suppose I can tell you. You've heern tell of 
Poplin Dracut, I s'pose. 



Mil SCHOOLMASTER. 



TULLYHORN. > h, ves, sir. 

SiMPSON.-little joke, you see ! Wall, 'taint there ; but 
it's down to Hull, when I'm to hum. 

Pellet {fries to suppress laughter),— Mr. Getchcu, how 
would you govern a school? In these clays oi and 

reform the mind of the community has undergone a radical 
change in regard to the discipline of common schools, and 
we consider the faculty of government as one of the most 
important qualifications of a teacher. 

Simrson.— Wal, 'tis. I govern a school by mortal in- 
fluence. There's always some who don't care nothing for 
nobody nor nothing, and who don't care whether they larn 
nothing or not; and sich ones you can't get along with 
without licking on 'em some. I've never kept school afore, 
and I s'pose you'd like to know how I come to, this time. 
Wall I'll tell you. 1 went down to Aunt Sal's house, t'other 
day ; and Aunt Sal's got two prim pretty darters ; and the 
way them gals put into me about my larmn] and all that, 
and how I ort to keep school, and all that, was a caution. 
So I thort I'd come up and get xamined, and get a stifer- 
cate and then I shouldn't be skeered at any on 'em. Aunt 
Sal's oldest darter, Betsey, is goin' to be married in the 
spring; she's got all her fixin's ready, and got a Ukely 
feller, too; and he', got his house built and his shed all 
shingled ; and 1 shouldn't think Strange if 1 should stood 

up at the weddin' with 

Tuiyhokn.— Well, never mind, sir, about Aunt Sally s 
domestic arrangements j they have nothing to do with the 
examination ; please to inform us to what stud.es vou have 

attended. . 

Swpson.— I've studied almost everything. I've studied 
grammar, ^-ometry, p-ography, Arithmetic, Sam Watts'a 



THE SCHOOLMASTER. 5 

hymns, and Molly Brown's ge-ogmphy, bolosophy, and a 
good many other books I hain't never seen yet. Besides 
all that, I am complete master of the Latin language. I 
will give you a specimen : " Amo ridiculi ridiculo potatus 
sum " 

Pellet. — That'll do, sir. Will you inform us what phi- 
losophy is? 

Simpson. — The heavenly bodies is philosophy, and the 
airthly bodies is philosophy ; and if there's a screw loose in 
the heavenly bodies, that's philosophy; and if there's a 
a screw loose in the airthly bodies, that's philosophy. 
There's a good many kinds of philosophy. 

Tullyhorn. — Very good, sir. What is gravitation? 

Simpson. — It's what makes things come down. 

Tullyhorn. — Who discovered gravitation? 

Simpson. — Old Isaiah Newton down here. You know 
him. He was walking along under an apple-tree, one 
day, and a tater fell down and hit him on the head, and 
that set him to thinking. Guess 'twould a sot me to 
thinking ! 

Pellet. — Your knowledge of philosophy appears to be 
very good and extensive ; therefore we will examine you no 
more in that branch. What's arithmetic, Mr. Peabody? 

Simpson. — Why, it's a book. Should think anybody might 
know that ! 

Pellet. — Into how many parts is arithmetic divided? 
Or, in other words, what are the four fundamental rules ? 

Simpson. — 'Rithmetic is divided into four parts : adop- 
tion, distraction, monopolization, and diversion. 

Tullyhorn. — What is addition ? 

Simpson. — If I should give you ten dollars, that would be 
addition ; and if you should give me ten dollars, that would 
be addition i other end up. 



O I III SCHOOLMASTER. 

Pellet. — What is subtraction? 

Simpson. — Substraction — straction, distraction! Oh, it's 
when a feller's raging mad. Almost had me there ! 

Pellet. — Yes, sir. What is vulgar fractions? 

Sim i son. — Guess that wan't in my book. Let— me — see ; 
vulgar means immodest — don't it? — and fractions means 
all shattered to pieces. Oh, I know now ; it means when 
an immodest man is shattered to pieces . 

Pellet. — What is the first thing you would do if asked 
to calculate an eclipse? 

Simpson. — I'd decline, and that mighty sudden ! 

TuLLYHORN. — You will now please to give your attention 
to grammar, as we consider that as among the most im- 
portant studies, and one that has been very much neglected 
in our common schools. What is grammar? 

Simpson. — It's the science as what tells boys and girls 
how to write letters to each other, and talk pretty talk. 

Tullyhorn. — Will you name the principal parts? 

Simpson. — Or-tho-graphy, et-y-mology, swinetax and 
prorosody. 

Phi. let. — We will now parse a few words, for the pur- 
pose of seeing whether you fully understand this branch of 
education. In the sentence, "And the minister said to 
him," parse minister. 

SIMPSON. — Minister is a conjunction. 

PELLET. — What reason can you give lor that, sir? 

Simpson.— 'Cause it jines together. 
Pi i let. — What does it connect? 

SIMPSON. — Man and woman. Should think any fool might 
know that ! 

Tullyhorn.— In the sentence, "Shall all the rest sit 
lingering here?" etc. — parse shall. 

Simpson. — Shell's a noun, a common noun, 'cause there's 



THE SCHOOLMASTER. 

a good many kinds of shells, such as oyster shells, snail- 
shells, chestnut shells, and such like ; third future tense, in- 
delible mode, nomination case to thou or you understood, 
according to Rule IX : Things that are equal to the same 
thing are equal to one another. 

Pellet. — My friend and myself would like to have you 
spell a few words. 

Simpson. — I know all about spells : cold spells, spells of 
weather, wet spells, and 

Pellet. — No matter about those. Can you spell Jacob? 

Simpson. — I guess ! J-a-k-u-p, Jacob. But they do say 
a leader of the choir up to our meeting got stuck with more 
music than he had words, and so he called it Ja — fol-de- 
riddle — cob. 

Tullyhorn. — What did you say your full name was ? 

Simpson. — Winthrop Getchell Peabody. 

Tullyhorn. — -Please spell it, for it sounds unusual to us. 

Simpson. — I ought to charge extra, for it is a hard thing 
to do. But here goes : We-e-in — win, throar — double-up, 
thrup, Winthrop ; Gee-e-double-etchell, Getchell ; Peabody, 
eabody-abody-body-ody-dy-y, Peabody ; Winthrop Getchell 
Peabody. I guess I'll set down and rest ! {Sits down.) 
Now I'll just run over it kinder fast, and I guess you'll like 
it. {Spells it very rapidly, and rises.) Say! How's that? 
Any more questions? It 'pears to me you are mighty par- 
ticular ! 

Tullyhorn. — We will not detain you much longer. We 
are pleased — {aside) that's so, isn't it, doctor? — with the 
examination. Make yourself comfortable while we write 
a document for you. 

Simpson {to himself while the committee talk together). — ■ 
Document ! That means stifercate. Well, times ain't now 
as they used to was to be 1 It used to was to be as to how 



g 1HF. SCHOOLMASTER. 

as that anybody could rise into the potent office of school- 
master • but new 'tain't so as how as, without being zamined 

by this lamed committee ; and this is the way eddfcation 
1S going to be riz! De-lightful task to rear the infant 

thought, and teach the young idee how to fire I— (Aside.) 
1 do believe I have fooled old Tully I (He walks up and 

down.) 

!>, ,.,,,, (aside).— Well, Mr. Tullyhom, what do you sayi 
[sn't he a genius? Mow are we going to get rid of him? 
We have had our fun in asking him questions, but what 

shall we do? 

TAjllyhorn.— I'm puzzled! He's evidently a keen 
Yankee— sharp, shrewd, but totally unfit to teach school ; 
and yet he'll take it hard to be turned off. He little sus- 
pects how we have been making game of him; and 1 do 
feel a little guilty. I never will impose on any other person 
while I am on this committee. But I'll ask him a question 
or two, and some way may suggest itself to us to refuse 
him a certificate, without exciting his suspicions or rousing 
his anger.— (Loud) Mr.Peabody! 

Simpson (turns quickly with his umbrella over h%s shoulder 

and knocks off an ornament from a shelf).-Vom humble 
servant, Mr. ' Is mv certificate read) ? Vou've talked and 

writ long enough to make a dozen ! 

TOLLYHORN.— 1 would like to ask one or two questions 
more What has been your pursuit in life? 

SIMPSON.— Well, if YOU urge the matter. 1 must tell you. 

Mv pursuit has been old Tullfs daughter Sarah ! 
' W.YHORN {jumps up in great excitement and strides 
toward candidate. Pellet follows). What do von mean. 
sir? No hesitation I By what right do v,n refer to my 

da sSN {slowly lays down umbrella and takes vanous 



THE SCHOOLMASTER. 9 

disguising wraps off one by one ; at last steps forth in his 
true character). — Well, Mr. Tullyhorn, what do you say, 
now ? Who's fooled ? Can I have my certificate ? Or 
will you send me off? Hey? {Punches his ribs with his 
thumb.) 

Tullyhorn. — You're a sly joker. You rather took the 
advantage of "old Tully." And as for friend Pellet and 
me, we are most ingloriously " sold." But we'll forgive 
you. Say, doctor? 

Pellet.— Yes, Tully ; but how about his pursuit ? 

Tullyhorn. — We will go straight to the house and see 
about that. (They go out.) 



A CONFESSION OF LOVE. 



CHARACTERS. 

Nicholas Ball, country gentleman with several daughters. 

Count Roseberry, suitor for the hand of Violet. 

Violet, beautiful, eccentric daughter of Ball. 

Situation. — The Count has the consent of Violet's father 

to make love to her, but his approaches have been 
baffled so perfectly that he cannot tell whether she has 
the first impulse of affection toward him. He tries in 
the guise of a priest to draw a confession from her \ but 

she unmasks him. He then secrets himself behind his 
own portrait, hears her confess her lore and steps forth 
to claim her. 

The scene takes place in a reception room or parlor. 
One corner is curtained off and behind the curtain is 
the picture of the COUNT on an easel. The picture 
must be placed a little to one side so that the curtain 

need not be wholly drawn, as the Count is concealed 

there. 

Enter Ball, followed by the Count, disguised as a Friar, 
Ball. — These things premised, you have my lull consent 

To try my (laughter's humor ; 

But observe me, sir ! 

I will use no compulsion with my child. 
If I had tendered thus her sister Zamora, 

1 should not now have mourned a daughter lost ! 

10 



A CONFESSION OF LOVE. II 

Enter Violet. 

Violet. — What is your pleasure ? 

Ball. — Knov\ this holy man ; (Introducing the Count to 
her.) 

It is the father confessor I spoke of. 
Though he looks young, in all things which respect 
His sacred function he is deeply learned. 

Violet (aside). — It is the Count ! 

Ball. — I- leave you to his guidance. 
To his examination and free censure, ■ 
Commit your actions and your private thoughts. 

Violet. — I shall observe, sir — (He goes out. Aside.) 
Nay, 'tis he, I'll swear ! 

Count (aside). — Pray Heaven she don't suspect me ! 
(Aloud.) Well, young lady, you have heard your father's 
commands ? 

Violet. — Yes, and now he has left us alone, what are we 
to do? 

Count.— I am to listen and you are to confess. 

Violet. — What ! And then you are to confess, and I 
am to listen? — (Aside.) Oh ! I'll take care you shall do 
penance though. 
- Count. — Pshaw ! 

Violet. — Well ; but what am I to confess ? 

Count. — Your sins, daughter ; your sins. 

Violet. — What ! all of them? 

Count. — Only the great ones. 

Violet. — The great ones ! Oh, you must learn those of 
my neighbors, whose business it is, like yours, to confess 
everybody's sins but their own. If now you would be con- 
tent with a few trifling peccadilloes, I would own them to 
you with all the frankness of an author, who gives his reader 



I2 a CON1 I 96I0N OF LOVE. 

the paltry errata of the press, but leaves him to find out all 

the capital blunders of the work himself. 

COUNT.— Nay, lady, this is trifling: I am in haste. 

Vl( „.].. i .— In haste! Then suppose I confess my virtues? 
You shall have the catalogue of them in a single breath. 

Count. Nay, then, I must call your father. 

Vl0] | ,._\\hy, then, to be serious :— If you will tell me 
of any very enormous offences which 1 may have lately 
committed, I shall have no objection in the world to * 
knowledge them to you. 

COUNT.— It is publicly reported, daughter, you are in 

love. 

Violet (aside). — So, so ! Are you there?— That I am in 

love. 

Count. — With a man — 

Violet.— Why, what should a woman be in love with? 

Count.— You interrupt me, lady.— A young man. 

Violet. I'm not in love with an old one, certainly.— But 

is love a crime, father? 

Count.— Heaven forbid ! 

VIOLET.— Why, then, you have nothing to do with it. 

COUNT.— Ay, but the concealing it is a crime. 

Violet. — Oh, the concealing it is a crime. 

Count.— Of the first magnitude. 

Violet.— Why, then, I confess— 

Count.— Well, what? 

Violet. -That the Count Roseberry— 

Count. — Go on ! 

Viol i t. — Is — 

COUNT. — Proceed '. 

Y,mm p.—- Desperately in love with me. 

Count.— Pshaw! That's not the point ! 

Violet.— Well, well, I'm coming to it: and not being 



A CONFESSION OF LOVE. 1 3 

able in his own person to learn the state of my affections, 
has taken the benefit of clergy, and assumed the disguise of 
a friar. 

Count. — Discovered ! 

Violet. — Ha ! ha ! ha ! — You are but ayoungmasquerader 
or you wouldn't have left your vizor at home. Come, come, 
Count, pull off your lion's apparel, and confess yourself an 
ass. (Count takes off the Friar's gown.) 

Count.— Nay, Violet, hear me ! 

Violet. — Not a step nearer ! — The snake is still danger- 
ous, though he has cast his skin. I believe you are the first 
lover on record, that ever attempted to gain the affections 
of his mistress by discovering her faults. Now, if you had 
found out more virtues in my mind than there will ever be 
room for, and more charms in my person than ever my 
looking-glass can create, why, then, indeed — 

Count. — What then? 

Violet. — Then I might have confessed what it's now im- 
possible I can ever confess ; and so farewell, my noble count 
confessor! (She goes out.) 

Count. — Farewell. 
And when I've hit upon the longitude, 
And plumbed the yet unfathomed ocean, 
I'll make another venture for thy love. 
Here comes her father. — I'll be fooled no longer. 
Enter Ball. 

Ball. — Well, sir, how thrive you? 

Count. — E'en as I deserve : 
Your daughter has discovered, mock'd at, and left me. 

Ball. — Yet I've another scheme. 

Count.— What is't? 

Ball. — My daughter, 
Being a lover of my art, of late 



14 A ( I INI l SSIOM I T 1 (v. 

1 1 s vehemently urged to sec your portrait ; 

Which, now 'tis finish'd, I stand pledged she shall. 

The picture's here (He indicates with his hand the cornet 

curtained off.) and you must stand conceal'd. 
And if, as we suspect, her heart leans tow'rds you, 
In some unguarded gesture, speech or action, 
Her love will suddenly break out. — Be quick ! 
I hear her coming. 

COUNT. — There's some hope in this. 

BALL. — It shall do wonders. — Hence! {Count conceals 
himself?) 

Enter Violet. 

VlOLET. — What, is he gone sir? 

Ball. — Gone! D'ye think the man is made of marble? 
Yes, he is gone. 

Violet. — For ever] 5 

Ball. — Ay, for ever. 

VlOLET. — Alas, poor Count ! — Or has he only left you 
To study some new character? Pray, tell me, 
What will he next appear in? 

BALL. — This is folly. 
'Tis time to call your wanton spirits home — 
You are too wild of speech. 

Violet. — My thoughts are free, sir; 
And those I utter 

Ball. — Far too quickly, girl ; 
Your shrewdness is a scarecrow to your beautv. 

VlOLET.— It will fright none but fools, sir: men of sense 
must naturally admire in us the quality they most value in 
themselves; a blockhead only protests against the wn 
woman, because he cannot answer her drafts upon his un- 
derstanding, but now uv talk of the Count, don't you 
remember your promise, sir? 



A CONFESSION OF LOVE. 1 5 

Ball {aside) . — Umph ! — What promise, girl*? 

Violet. — That I should see your picture of him. 

Ball. — So you shall, when you can treat the original with 
a little more respect. 

Violet. — Nay, sir, a promise ! 

Ball. — But, before I show it, tell me honestly, how do 
you like the Count, his person, and understanding? 

Violet.— Why, as to his person, I don't think he's hand- 
some enough to pine himself to death for his own shadow, 
like the youth in the fountain — nor yet so ugly as to be 
frightened to dissolution if he should look at himself in a 
glass. Then, as to his understanding, he has hardly wit 
enough to pass for a madman, nor yet so little as to be 
taken for a fool. In short, sir, I think the Count is very 
well worth any young woman's contemplation — when she 
has no better earthly thing to think about. 

Ball. — Now I must go to other business, but the picture 
has been placed here. (He draws curtain so as to conceal 
the Count and goes out.) 

Violet (thinking herself atone) . — Confess that I love the 
Count ! — A woman may do a more foolish thing than to 
fall in love with such a man, and a wiser one than to tell 
him of it. (Looks at the picture.) 'Tis very like him — 
the hair is a shade too dark — and rather too much com- 
plexion for a despairing enamorato. Confess that I love 
him ! — Now there is only his picture. I'll see if I can't 
play the confessor a little better than he did. " Daughter, 
they tell me you're in love?" — "Well, father, there is no 
harm in speaking the truth." — "With the Count Roseberry, 
daughter? " — " Father, you are not a confessor, but a con- 
juror! " — "They add, moreover, that you have named the 
day for your marriage?" — "There, father, you are misin- 
formed ; for like a discreet maiden, I have left that for him 



l6 A CONF1 SSION "i LOVE. 

to do." (Sht turns away from the future and the Count 
comes forth.) Then he should throw off his dis 
should gaze at him with astonishment— he should open his 
arms, whilst I sunk gently into them— (The Count catches 
her in his arms,)— The Count ! 

Enter NICHOLAS Ba] L. 
My father, too ! Nay, then, 1 am fairly hunted into the 
toil. There, take my hand, Count, while 1 am free to give 

it. 

TABLEAU. CURTAIN. 



NOT QUITE. 



Adapted from the play " Paul Pry," by John Poole, Esq. 



CHARACTERS. 

Mr. WitherV i, an old man, somewhat feeble. 

Paul Pry, a ?neddlesotne inquisitive little man, in fantastic 
costume. *. 

Willis, a young man, nephew to Mr. Witherton. 

Grasp, steward to Mr. Witherton. 

Mrs. Subtle, a middle-aged woman, of deceitful disposition 

and disagreeable face and manners — housekeeper to 

Mr. Witherton. 

Marian, a young woman. 

A Young Man. 

Situation. — Mr. Witherton, a ?nan of much p7-operty is 
entirely under the control of his housekeeper, Mrs. 
Subtle. She has taken him out to walk with the 
distinct purpose to niake him offer to marry her. 
Willis and Marian suspect her designs on Mr. Wither- 
ton's property and so are obnoxious to the housekeeper. 
Grasp knows other plots of Mrs. Subtle's, and on the 
strength of his knowledge hopes to get her hand in mar- 
riage. Everything is upset, however, by the inquisitive 
Paul Pry. Mr. Witherton's proposal is never made 
to Mrs. Subtle. 

The scene takes place in the sitting-room of Mr. 
Witherton's country residence. 

2 17 



ib NOT nun. 

Enter Willis and Marian, com*ersing. 

Willis. — I have reason to believe that Mrs. Subtle's 
grand project is a marriage with my uncle —by the influence 
she would thus obtain over him, our ruin would be accom- 
plished. 

Marian. — And are there no means of preventing their 
marriage? 

Willis. — I fear it will be difficult ; when the affections 
of a solitary old man, a slave like him to circumstances and 
habit, are once entangled in the snares of a wily woman, it 
is no easy task to disengage them. But here she and my 
uncle come. We must not be seen together. Ha ! 'tis 
too late— they are here. 

Enter Witherton leaning on Mrs. Subtle's arm. 

Mrs. Subtle. — Gently, sir, gently. (To Marian.) What 
are you doing here ? Why are you not in your own apart- 
ment? 

Marian. — I — I was merely talking to Mr. Willis, ma'am. 

Mrs. SUBTLE. — Leave the room. 

Witherton. — Speak mildly to her, my good Mis. Subtle; 
consider — she is young and timid. 

Mrs. SUBTLE. — Young and timid indeed. 

WITHERTON. — Go, my dear, Mrs. Subtle is a little severe 
in manner, but she means well. {Morion croi 

Marian. — I obey you, sir. 

Mrs. Subtle (in an undertone), — Obey me or countnot 
on a long continuance here— begone! {Exit Marian?) 
Leave her to me, sir. (To Witherton,) I understand 
these matters best; (To Willis % in a gentle ton,-.) and you, 
Mr. Willis, to encourage a forward chit like that — I'm as- 
tonished at you. 

Willis. - Indeed you mistake me. 



NOT QUITE. 19 

Mrs. Subtle. No matter, leave us. 

Witherton. — Be within call, Willis, I would speak with 
you presently. 

Willis. — I will, sir. {Mrs. Subtle brings a chair forward 
for Witherton, who seats himself near Mrs. Subtle. ) 

Witherton. — That girl is a favorite of mine, Mrs. Subtle, 
in her way — in her way, I mean. She was strongly recom- 
mended to me, by my friend Colonel Hardy, and I am 
sorry you have conceived so strange an antipathy to her. 

Mrs. Subtle. — And I am surprised you are so strongly 
attached to her. Do you know I am almost — I had nearly 
said a foolish word — jealous of her. 

Witherton. — Jealous ! Now Mrs. Subtle, you would 
banter me. But now we are alone, and secure from inter- 
ruption, tell me what it is you would consult me upon-^ 
once while we were out, you were on the point of speaking, 
when we were intruded on by that meddling blockhead, Mr. 
Pry. 

Mrs. Subtle {turning away). — Oh, 'tis nothing, sir, a 
trifle. 

Witherton. — You cannot deceive me; something sits 
heavily at your heart ; explain the cause of it — you know 
me for your friend, your sincere friend. Come, speak 
freely. 

Mrs. Subtle. — Well, then, sir, since I never act in any 
important matter, but by your direction, I would ask your 
advice in this, of all others, the — most important. 

Witherton. — Go on. 

Mrs. Subtle. — Mr. Grasp, who has long been attentive 
to me, at length importunes for my decision on the question 
of marriage. 

Witherton. — Marriage Take a chair, Mrs. Subtle, take 
a chair. (She sits.) 



SO] QUITE. 



Mrs subixe.— Yes, sir. Hitherto I have never distinctly 
accepted, nor have 1 rejected the offer of his hand ; weaned 
at length by my indecision, he has this morning masted on 
knowing my intentions, one way or the other. 

WrrHERTON.- Well, well. 

Mrs Softus.— It is a serious question; my mind is sun 
ansettled; my heart, alas! takes no. part in the question. 
How would you advise me, sir? 

WiTHEETON.-'Really, Mrs. Subtle, 1 was bo htde prepared 
for such a communication, that 1 hardly know-Grasp is an 
honest man-a very honest man. 

MRS SUHTtE.-He is a very honest man, yet my own 
nerience has taught me that a very honest man may he a 

very-very bad husband. Then although 1 allow Mr. Grasp 

to be a very well meaning man-his temper— 

VvrrHERTON.-That is none of the best, certainly. 

Mrs . S, me,. -His manners tOO-not that 1 believe he 
w0ttld Singly offend, are offensive. Even you, 1 fear, 
have observed that, (or he has frequently addressed you in 
amod e which myaffection-1 would say, my respectfoi 

you, have induced me to reprove. 

' Witherton.— He does laek urbanity, 1 grant. 

Mrs. Suimx.-And tome, that is intolerable, for not- 
withstanding my situation here, I can never forget that 
1 the daughter of a gentleman. Then his taste andhdnts 

differ from mine. 

VvrrHERTOH— These are important objections, Mrs. 
Subtle, considering that your first husband was as you have 

°Mm?& e. ilk. -Speak not to me of hum sir, lor that re- 

mind8I neofoneof the bitterest periods of my hfc 
apite of Mr. sul.tle's ill usage ol me, I never once forgot 
4 duty and obedience of a wife; but he w« young, vam, 



NOT QUITE. 21 

fickle, and I am too late convinced that it is not till a man 
is somewhat advanced in life — till his sentiments and habits 
are formed and fixed, that he can thoroughly appreciate 
the value of a wife's affection, or so regulate his conduct, 
as to insure her happiness, and his own. 

Witherton. — That is a very sensible remark, Mrs. Subtle. 

Mrs. Subtle. — My father was an evidence of the truth 
of it, sir. My father was nearly sixty when he married. 

Witherton. — Indeed ! your own father? 

Mrs. Subtle. — Aye, sir, and he lived to the good old age 
of eighty-seven. But he was happy, and enjoyed a con- 
tented mind. How tenderly my poor mother loved him. 

Witherton. — What was her age ? 

Mrs. Subtle.— When she married him, about mine, sir. 
I believe it was the contemplation of the picture of their 
felicity, so constantly before my eyes, that confirmed my 
natural disposition for the quiet of domestic life. Ah, had 
I been fortunate in the selection of a partner. 

Witherton. — Much — everything, depends on that, and I 
think that Grasp is not altogether — he is not at all the 
husband for you. 

Mrs. Subtle. — So my heart tells me, sir ■ yet, when I 
quit your house, would you have me live alone ? without a 
protector? 

Witherton. — How ! quit my house ! 

Mrs. Subtle. — Alas, that must I whether I accept his 
proposals or not. Yet let not that distress you, sir, for I 
doubt not — I hope, that when I am gone, my place may be 
supplied by some one equally attentive to your comforts, 
your happiness. 

Witherton. — Do I hear aright? Quit my house, and 
wherefore ? 

Mrs. Subtle.— I hardly know in what words to tell you ; 



2 2 NO! QUITE. 

and, after all, perhaps you will say I am a silly woman, to 
regard such idle slander, who can control the tongue of 
scandal? My care of you, my attentions, my unceasing 
assiduities, become the subject of remark ; but I had re- 
solved not to mention this to you ; my unwearied attention 
to you, which is the result of mere duty — of friendship — 
perhaps of a sisterly affection, is said to spring from a 
deeper — a warmer source 

WlTHERTON. — And were it so, dear Mrs. Subtle, are we 
accountable to a meddling world 

Mrs. SUBTLE. — Ah, sir, you, a man, strong in the re< ;i- 
tude of your conduct, master of your own actions, master 
of your own actions, I say, and independent of the world, 
may set at naught its busy slanders. Hut I, an humble, 
unprotected woman — no, the path of duty lies straight be- 
fore me ; I must give my hand where I feel I cannot bestow 
my heart, and for ever quit a house where I have been but 
too happy. 

WlTHERTON. — Nay, by heaven, but you shall not : must 
your happiness be sacrificed? mine too? Ay, mine. 

Mrs. SUBTLE [rises), — Hold, sir, say no more. Do not 
prolong a delusion which I am endeavoring to dispel. If 
I have unwarily betrayed to you a secret, which I nave 
scarcely dared to trust even to my own thoughts ; if I have 
foolishly mistaken the kindness of a friend, tor a more 
tender sentiment, forgive my presumption, and forgive her 
who, but for the lowliness of her station, might as an affec- 
tionate and devoted wife, have administered to your happi- 
ness; who conscious of her own unworthiness, must soon 
behold you for the last time. 

Witherton. — Stay, dearest Mrs. Subtle, and listen to 
your friend, your best and truest lricnd. First promise me, 
that here you will remain. 



NOT QUITE. 23 

Mrs. Subtle. — But you have not yet advised me respect- 
ing Mr. Grasp's proposal, and I have promised him an 
immediate reply. 

Witherton. — Attend to what I am about to say, and 
then, dearest Mrs. Subtle, let your own heart dictate your 
choice. 

Mrs. Subtle (aside). — Tis done! 

Witherton. — Were I longer to hesitate, I should be 
negligent of my own happiness, and unjust towards your 
merits ; for if an attachment, long and severely tried, were 

not of itself sufficient to warrant me in (A knock at 

the door.) 

Mrs. Subtle {as Witherton starts up). — Curse on the 
interruption, when but another word had realized my 
hopes. 

Enter Paul Pry. 

Pry. — Oh, ha, I see, billing and cooing, I hope I don't 
intrude ? 

Mrs. Subtle. — You do, sir. 

Pry. — Well, I am very sorry, but I came to show you the 
Country Chronicle ; there is something in it I thought 
might interest you ; two columns-full about a prodigious 
gooseberry, grown by Mrs. Nettlebed at the Priory. Most 
curious, shall I read it to you? 

Witherton. — No, you are very good. (Turns up im- 
patiently.) 

Pry. — I perceive I am one too many. Well now, upon 
my life, ( Whispers her.) if I had entertained the smallest 
idea 

Mrs. Subtle. — What do you mean, sir. 

Pry (speaks mysteriously). — Bless you, I see things 
with half an eye ; but never fear me, I'm as close as wax. 



24 not <.»i in. 

Now, I say Mrs. Subtle, between ourselves — it shall go no 
farther, there is something in the wind, eh? 

Mks. SUBTLE. — I don't understand you. 

Pry. — Well, well, you are right to be cautious ; only 1 
have often thought to myself it would be a good thing for 
both of you, he is rich — no one to inherit his fortune, and 
by all accounts, you have been very kind to him, eh? 

Mrs. Sum i e. — Sir ! 

Pry. — I mean no harm, but take my advice ; service is 
no inheritance, as they say. Do you look to number one ; 
take care to feather your nest. You are still a young woman, 
under forty, I should think, thirty-eight now — there, or 
thereabouts, eh ? 

Mrs. Sri: hi. — My respect for Mr. \\ itherton forbids me 
to say that his friend is impertinent. 

WlTHERTON (to himself), — This intrusion is no longer 
to be borne. (Comes down near Pry.) Have you any 
particular business with me, sir? 

Pry. — Yes, you must know, I've seen a young fellow 
lurking about your friend Hardy's house, and 1 5USpe< t 
there is something not right going forward in his family. 

WlTHERTON. — That is his business, not mine, sir. 

Pry. — True, but 1 have been thinking that as you are 
his friend, it would be but friendly if you were just to drop 
in, and talk to him about it. 

WlTHERTON. — That is mv business, and not/yours. 

Pry. — 1 don't say the contrary, but at afl events, I'm 
determined to keep watch over 

WlTHERTON. — That is your business, therefore you may 
do as you please; yet let me suggest to you, that this un- 
happy propensity of yours to meddle in matters which 
do not concern you. may one day or other produce very 
mischievous effects. 



NOT QUITE. 25 

Pry. — Now I take that unkindly ; what interest have I 
in trying to do a good-natured thing? Am I ever a gainer 
by it? But I'll make a vow that from this time forward I'll 
never interfere. Hush ! there he is again ; will you do 
me a favor ? just allow me to go out this way. 

Witherton. — Any way out you please. 

Pry. — I'll give the alarm, and if I let him escape me this 
time — Follow! follgw ! follow! {He goes out.) Now, my 
lively spark, I'll have you. 

Witherton. — What can be the meaning of all this ! 
That busy fellow's interruption has thrown all my ideas into 
confusion. 

Mrs. Subtle. — Be composed, sir, take a chair and let 
us resume 

Enter Grasp abruptly. 

Well, what is it you want, Mr. Grasp? 

Grasp (gruffly). — You ! 

Witherton. — Mrs. Subtle is engaged just now. 

Grasp. — No matter, she must come with me, I have 
something to say to her. 

Mrs. Subtle. — I'll come to you presently. 

Grasp. — You must come at once. I am not to be made 
a dupe — come. — Mr. Willis is waiting to see you in the 
library, sir — now, Mrs. Subtle, if you please. (Crosses 
and goes out.) 

Witherton. — Return quickly, dear Mrs. Subtle, and 
promise nothing till you have again consulted me. 

Mrs. Subtle. I will obey you, sir ; you see how easily 
we poor weak women are diverted from our better resolu- 
tions. ( Witherton goes out.) He is almost mine. (She 
follows Grasp out.) 



CAPTAIN KEMPTHORN. 



Adapted from "John Endicott," by Longfellow. 
CHARA( II KS 

Simon Kempthorn, Captain of the Swallow, a rough, honest 

man of middle age. 
Ralph Goldsmith, another sea-captain. 
Edward Butler, treasurer of the Commonwealth, an old 

man with an ear trumpet. 
Walter Merry, Hthing-man of the colony, a tall thin man, 

with a hooked nose. 
Two citizens and a crowd. 

Situation. — Simon Kempthorn has brought to Boston three 

Quakers whom the authorities hare put in prison and 
scourged. Captain Kempthorn has been put in the 
pillory for swearing and has also been bound by a bond 
of one hundred pounds to carry the Quakers back. In 
the second scene he is at the tare;// of the Three Mari- 
ners puzzling as to how he will get away from port 

There are lists of rules of good behavior hung up on 
the tavern walls, 

7he eve/its are supposed to take place in Boston in 
J66 5 . 

Scene I. 

A street in front of the town house. KEMPTHORN in the 

pillory. Merry and a crowd are looking on. 

Ki MP] horn ( rings). — 

?6 



CAPTAIN KEMPTHORN. 27 

The world is full of care, 

Much like unto a bubble ; 
Women and care, and care and women, 
And women and care and trouble. 
Good Master Merry, may I say confound? 

Merry. — Ah, that you may. 

Kempthorn. — Well, then, with your permission, 
Confound the Pillory ! 

Merry. — That's the very thing 
The joiner said who made the Shrewsbury stocks. 
He said, confound the stocks, because they put him 
Into his own. He was the first man in them. 

Kempthorn. — For swearing, was it? 

Merry. — No, it was for charging; 
He charged the town too much, and so the town, 
To make things square, set him in his own stocks, 
And fined him five pound sterling, — just enough 
To settle his own bill. 

Kempthorn. — And served him right ; 
But, Master Merry, is it not eight bells? 

Merry. — Not quite. 

Kempthorn. — For, do you see? I'm getting tired 

Of being perched aloft here in this cro' nest 

Like the first mate of a whaler, or a Middy 

Mast-headed, looking out for land ! Sail ho ! 

Here comes a heavy-laden merchantman. 

With the lee clews eased off, and running free 

Before the wind. A solid man of Boston 
t 

A comfortable man, with dividends, 

And the first salmon, and the first green peas. 

A gentleman passes. 
He does not even turn his head to look. 
He's gone without a word. Here comes another, 



2 S CAPTAIN KEMPTHORN. 

A different kind of craft on a taut bowline,— 

Deacon Giles Firmin the apothecary, 

A pious and a ponderous citizen, 

Looking as rubicund and round and splendid 

As the great bottle in his own shop window! 

Deacon Firman passes. 
And here's my host of the Three Mariners, 
My creditor and trusty taverner, 
My corporal in the Great Artillery ! 
He's not a man to pass me without speaking. 
Cole looks aicay and passes. 
Don't yaw so ; keep your luff, old hypocrite! 
Respectable, ah, yes, respectable. 
You, with your seat in the new Meeting-house, 
Your cow-right on the Common! But who's this? 
I did not know the Mary Ann was in! 
And yet this is my old friend, Captain Coldsmith, 
As sure as 1 stand in the bilboes here. 
Why, Ralph, my bow ! 

Ralph Goldsmith comes in. 

Goldsmith. Why, Simon, is it you? 
Set in the bilboes? 

Ki mpthorn.— Chock-a-block, you see, 
And without chafing-gear. 

Goldsmith. And what's it for? 

Kempthorn. Ask that starbowline with the boat-hook 

there, 
That handsome man. 

Merry {bowing).— For swearing. 
Kempthorn.— In this town 

They put sea-captains in the stocks for swearing. 
And Quakers for not swearing. So look out. 



CAPTAIN KEMPTHORN. 29 

Goldsmith. — I pray you set him free ; he meant no harm ; 
'Tis an old habit he picked up afloat. 

Merry. — Well, as your time is out, you may come down. 
The law allows you now to go at large. 
Like Elder Oliver's horse upon the Common. 

Kempthorn. — Now, hearties, bear a hand ! Let go and 
haul. 

Kempthorn is set free, and comes fo7-wa7'd, shaking Gold- 
smith's hand. 

Kempthorn. — Give me your hand, Ralph. Ah, how good 
it feels! 
The hand of an old friend. 

Goldsmith. — God bless you, Simon! 

Kempthorn. — Now let us make a straight wake for the 
tavern 
Of the Three Mariners, Samuel Cole commander ; 
Where we can take our ease, and see the shipping, 
And talk about old times. 

Goldsmith. — First I must pay 
My duty to the Governor, and take him 
His letter's and despatches. Come with me. 

Kempthorn. — I'd rather not. I saw him yesterday. 

Goldsmith. — Then wait for me at the Three Nuns and 
Count. 

Kempthorn. — I thank you. That's too near the town 
pump. 
I will go with you to the Governor's. 
And wait outside there, sailing off and on ; 
If I am wanted, you can hoist a signal. 

Merry. — Shall I go with you and point out the way ? 

Goldsmith. — Oh, no, I thank you. I am not a stranger 
Here in your crooked little town. 



30 CAPTAIN KEMFTHORN. 

MERRY. — How now, sir? 
I k) you abuse our town? (Hi %oei out.) 
Goldsmith. — Oh, no offence. 

KeMFTHORN. — Ralph, I am under bonds for a hundred 
pound 

Goldsmith. — Hard lines. What lor ? 

KEMFTHORN. — To take some Quakers back 
I brought here from Barbadoes in the Swallow. 
And how to do it 1 don't clearly see, 
For one of them is banished, and another 
Is sentenced to be hanged ! What shall I do? 

GOLDSMITH. — Just slip your hawser on some cloudy night : 
Sheer off, and pay it with the topsail, Simon! {They ^ out) 

Scene II. 

The parlor of the Three Mariners. KEMFTHORN eo/nes in. 

KEMFTHORN. — A dull life this, — a dull life anyway ! 
Ready for sea ; the cargo all aboard, 
Cleared for Barbadoes, and a fair wind blowing 
From nor'-nor'-west ; and I, an idle lubber, 
Laid neck and heels by that confounded bond! 
I said to Ralph, says I, " What's to be done? " 
Says he : "Just slip your hawser in the night ; 
Sheer off, and pay it with the topsail, Simon." 
Hut that won't do ; because, you see, the owners 
Somehow or other are mixed up with it. 
Here are King Charles's Twelve Good Rules, that Cole 
Thinks as important as the Rule of 'Three-. (Head 
"Make no comparisons; make no long meaN." 
Those are good rules and golden tor a landlord 
'To hang in his best parlor, framed and glazed! 
u Maintain no ill opinions; urge no healths." 

(He steps to the table and drinks from a tankard of ale?) 



CAPTAIN KEMPTHORN. 3 1 

I drink the King's, whatever he may say, 
And, as to ill opinions, that depends. 
Now of Ralph Goldsmith I've a good opinion, 
And of the bilboes I've an ill opinion ; 
And both of these opinions I'll maintain 
As long as there's a shot left in the locker. 

Edward Butler with an ear-trumpet comes in. 
Butler. — Good morning, Captain Kempthorn. 
Kempthorn. — Sir, to you. 
You've the advantage of me. I don't know you. 
What may I call your name? 

Butler. — That's not your name? 

Kempthorn {raises his voice). — Yes, that's my name. 

What's yours? 
Butler. — My name is Butler. 
1 am the treasurer of the Commonwealth. 
Kempthorn. — Will you be seated ? 
Butler. — What say? Who's conceited? 
Kempthorn. — Will you sit down? 
Butler. — Oh, thank you. 
Kempthorn {in a lower tone). — Spread yourself upon 

this chair, sweet Butler. 
Butler {sitting down). — A fine morning. 
Kempthorn. — Nothing's the matter with it that I know 
of. 
I have seen better, and I have seen worse. 
The wind's nor' west. ( Very loud) . That's fair for them 
that sail. 
Butler. — You need not speak so loud ; I understand you. 

You sail to-day. 
Kempthorn. —No, I don't sail to-day. 
So, be it fair or foul ; it matters not 
Say, will you smoke? There's choice tobacco here. 



$2 CAPTAIN KEMPTHORN, 

1U ii i r. No. thank you. It's against the law to smoke. 
KeMPTHORN. — Then, will you drink? There's good ale 

at this inn. 
BUTLER.— No thank you. It's against the law to drink. 

Kempthorn [not so loud). — Well, almost everything's 

against the law. 
In this good town, (iive a wide berth to one thing, 
You're sure to fetch up soon on something else. 

BUTLER. — And so you sail to-day for dear Old England. 
I am not one of those who think a sup 
Of this New England air is better worth 
Than a whole draught of our Old England's ale. 

Kempthorn. — Nor I. Give me the ale and keep the 
air. 
But, as I said, I do not sail to-day. 

Butler. — Ah, yes \ you sail to-day. 

Ki MPTHORN. — I'm under bonds 
To take some Quakers back to the Barbadoes ; 
And one of them is banished, and another 
Is sentenced to be hanged. 

BUTLER. — No, all are pardoned. 
All are set free, by order of the Court ; 
But some of them would fain return to England, 
you must not take them. Upon that condition 
Your bond is cancelled. 

KEMPTHORN {aside). — Ah, the wind has shifted! 
( To Butler,) I pray you, do you speak officially ? 

BUTLER.—] always speak officially. To prove it, 
Here is the bond. [He rises and gives paper?) 

Ki MPTHORN. And here's my hand Upon it. 
And, look you when I sav I'll do a thing 
The thing is done. Am 1 now free to go? 

Butler, what say? 



CAPTAIN KEMPTHORN. 33 

Kempthorn {aside). — I say, confound the tedious man 
With his strange speaking-trumpet! {To Butler.) — Can 
I go? 

Butler. — You're free to go, by order of the Court. 
Your servant, sir. {He goes out.) 

Kempthorn {shouting from the window). 
Swallow, ahoy! Hallo! 

( To himse/f). If ever a man was happy to leave Boston, 
That man is Simon Kempthorn of the Swallow ! 

Butler comes back. 

Butler. — Pray did you call? 

Kempthorn. — Call? Yes, I hailed the Swallow. 

Butler. — That's not my name. My name is Edward 
Butler. 
You need not speak so loud. 

Kempthorn {shaking hands). Good by ! Good by! 

Butler. — Your servant, sir. 

Kempthorn. — And yours a thousand times! {They go 
out.) 

3 



THE RESTLESS YOUTH. 



CHARACTERS. 

Henry Swift, a retired tailor, small and slow. 

John Swift, his sou, flashily dressed, of shallow brain and 

always in gteat haste, 
Mr. Houghton, a rich retired brewer. 
Miss Houghton, his daughter, 
A waiter, a servant. 

Situation. — Young SWIFT a spendthrift son, returns to his 
father, discovers that the old man is -wealthier than he 
supposed, and hurries him off to call on a rich brewer 
in the vicinity who has a pretty daughter. The fun of 
the dialogue centres in the restlessness of young Swift. 

Old SwlFT in the second scene carries a cane just a 
yard long, and it has a mark or ribbon in the centre to 
mark the half-yard. 

The dialogue takes place in a small country town in 
England. 

Scene I. 
A poorly furnished room. Young Swift enters dragging in 
his father who has fust been roused from sleep, and 
wears a dressing-gown. 
Swift. — Come along, dad. 

Father [yawning half-awake). — Yes, sir, — yes, sir — I'll 
measure you directly — I'll measure you directly. 
SwiFT. — He's asleep. Awake ! 

34 



THE RESTLESS YOUTH. 35 

Father. — What's the matter, eh? What's the matter? 

Swift. — What's the matter? I've found fifty thousand 
in that letter. [He points to a letter protruding from the 
pocket of his father 1 s coat which lies on a chair.} 

Father. — Indeed! {Opens the letter eagerly.) Ah! 
Johnny have you found out — 

Swift. — I have — that you are worth — how much? 

Father. — Why, since what's past 

Swift. — Never mind what's past. 

Father. — I've been a fortunate man. My old partner 
used to say, " Ah ! you afe lucky, Swift. Your needle 
always sticks in the right place." 

Swift. — No, not always. {Shrugging.) But how much? 

Father. — Why, as it must out, there are fifty thousand 
lent on mortgage. Item, fifteen thousand in the consols — 
item — 

Swift. — Never mind the items. The total, my dear dad, 
the total. 

Father. — What do you think of a plum ? 

Swift. — A plum ! oh, sweet, agreeable, little, short 
word ! 

Father. — Besides seven hundred and ninety 

Swift. — Never mind the odd money ; that will do. But 
how came you so rich, dad? Hang me, you must have 
kept moving. 

Father. — Why, my father, forty years ago, left me five 
thousand pounds ; which, at compound interest, if you mul- 
tiply 

Swift. — No; you have multiplied it famously. {Aside.) 
It's my business to reduce it. — Now, my dear dad, in the 
first place, never call me Johnny. 

Father. — Why, what must I call you ? 

Swift. — John — short — John. 



, mi Rl STLE9S Vui'TH. 

Father.— John! oh, John! 

SwiFT.— That will do. And in the next place, sink the 
tailor. Whatever you do, sink the tailor. 

Father.— Sink the tailor! what do you mean? 

SwiFT.— I've news for you. We are going to be intro- 
duced to Mr. Houghton the rich brewer. 

Father—You don't say so! Huzzah! it will be the 

making of us. 

SwiFT.— To be sure. Such fashion ! such style! 
Father.— Ah, and such a quantity of liveries and -oh, 
dear me. ( With great dejection.) 
Swift.— What's the matter? 

F vl HER Uighing).- 1 forgot 1 had left of! business. 
Swift.— Business ! confound if. Now. pray keep the 
tailor under, will you? l'11-I'll send a telegram to London. 
(Runs to the table.) 

FATHER.— A telegram! for what? 
Swift. — I don't know. 

Waiter enters. 

w yrER -_ The bill of fare, gentlemen. 

SwiFT.-Bring it here. (Reads.) "Turbots-salmon- 
soies -haddock— beef - mutton-veal - lamb - pork- 
chickens-ducks— turkeys— puddings— pies. Serve it all ; 

that's the short way. 

Waiter.— All ! 

Swift. — Every bit. 

Father -No, no, nonsense. The short way, indeed I 
Come here, sir. Let me see- (reads.) «um-um. Ribs 
of beef." That's a good thin- I'll have that. 

Swift. What? 

Waiter.— Ribs of beef, sir. 

Swift.— Are they the short ribs? 



THE RESTLESS YOUTH. 37 

Waiter. — Yes, sir. 

Swift. — That's right. 

Waiter. — What liquor would your honor like? 

Swift {jumping up.) — Spruce beer. 

Waiter. — Very well, sir. 

Swift. — I must have some clothes. 

Father. — I'm sure, that's a very good coat. 

Swift. — Waiter ! I must have a dashing coat, for the 
nabob. Is there a rascally tailor anywhere near you? 

Waiter. — Yes, sir ; there are two close by. ( They look 
at each other.) 

Swift. — Umph ! then tell one of them to send me some 
clothes. 

Waiter. — Sir, he must take your measure. 

Father. — To be sure he must. 

Swift. — Oh, true! I remember the fellows do measure 
you somehow with long bits of — well send for the scoun- 
drel. {Exit Waiter.) 

Father. — Oh, for shame of yourself ! I've no patience. 

Swift. — Like you the better ; hate patience as much as 
you do ; ha, ha ! must swagger a little. 

Father. — Ah ! I'm too fond of you, I am, John. Take 
my fortune, but only remember this — by the faith of a man, 
I came by it honestly — and all I ask is, that it may go as it 
came. 

Swift. — Certainly. But we must keep moving, you know. 

Father. — Well, I don't care if I do take a bit of a walk 
with you. 

Swift. — Bit of a walk ! hang it ! we'll have a gallop to- 
gether. Come along, dad. Push on, dad. {Swift grabs the 
coat from the chair and pushes his father before him out of 
the room. His father tries in vain to take off his dressing 
gown.) 



38 i in: RESTLESS \<ti 11. 

Scene II. 

A finely furnished apartment in the mansion of Mr. Hough- 
1 1 >\. Enter Swift and /it's father, Mr. H< >i < ;hton <///</ 
daughter, 

MlSS HOUGHTON. — Welcome to Houghtonham Hall, gen- 
tlemen. 

SWIFT. — Charming house ! plenty of room \ {Runs about 
and looks at everything. ) 

Father. — A very spacious apartment indeed. 

HOUGHTON. — Yes, sir; but, I declare, 1 forget the dimen- 
sions of this room. 

Father. — Sir, if you please, I'll measure it — my cane is 
exactly a yard, good, honest measure ; 'tis handy — and that 
mark is the half-yard 

Swift (overhears and snatches the cane front Aim). — Con- 
found it! the pictures, father — look at the pictures; (point- 
ing with the cane) did you ever see such charming 

Miss Houghton. — Do you like pictures ? 

Swift. — Exceedingly, ma'am ; but I should like them a 
great deal better, if they just moved a little. 

Miss HOUGHTON. — Ha! ha! I must retire to dress ; till 
dinner, gentlemen, adieu. (She goes out.) 

Swift (to his father). — Father ! you'll ruin everything ! 
can't you keep the tailor under ? 

Houghton. — Your son seems rather impatient. 

Father. — Very, sir, — always was. I remember a certain 

duke 

SWIFT. That's right, lay the scene high ; push the duke ; 
push him as far as he'll go. 

Father. — I will, I will. I remember a certain duke used 

to say, " Mr. Swift, your son is as sharp as a needle." 
SWIFT. — At it again ! 



THE RESTLESS YOUTH. 39 



Father. — As a needle- 



Swift (interrupting hint). — Is true to the pole. As a 
needle is true to the pole, says the duke, so will your son, 
says the duke be to everything spirited and fashionable, 
says the duke. {Aside to his father.) Am I always to be 
tortured with your infernal needles? 

Houghton (aside) . — Now to sound them. — I hear gen- 
tlemen, your business in this part of the country is with Sir 
Hubert Stanley, respecting some money transactions. 

Father. — 'Tis a secret, sir. 

Houghton. — Oh ! no — the baronet avows his wish to 
sell his estate. 

Father. — Oh, that alters the case. 

Houghton. — I think that it would be a desirable pur- 
chase for you — I should be happy in such neighbors — and 
if you should want forty or fifty thousand, ready money, 
I'll supply it with pleasure. 

Father. — Oh, sir, how kind ! If my son wishes to pur- 
chase it, 1 would rather leave it entirely with him. 

Swift. — And I would rather leave it entirely to you. 

Houghton. — Very well, I'll propose for it. There is a 
very desirable borough interest ; then you could sit in par- 
liament. 

Swift. — I in parliament? ha ! ha ! 

Father. — No! that would be a botch. 

Swift. — No, no ; I was once in the gallery — crammed 
in — no moving — expected to hear the great guns — up got a 
little fellow, nobody knew who, gave us a three hours' 
speech— rl got deuced fidgetty — the house called for the 
question, I joined in the cry — " the question, the ques- 
tion ! " says I — a member spied me — cleared the gallery — 
got hustled by my brother spectators — obliged to scud — oh ! 
it would never do for me. 



40 THE RESTLESS YOUTH, 

Houghton. — But you must learn patience. 
Swift. — Then make me speaker — if that wouldn't teach 
me patience, nothing would. 
Houghton. — Do you dislike, sir, parliamentary eloquence? 

FATHER. — Sir, I never heard one of your real, downright 
parliamentary speeches in my life—never. [Yawns.} 

Swift. — By your yawning, I should think you had heard 
a great many. 

HOUGHTON. — Oh, how lucky ! at last I shall get my dear 
speech spoken. Sir, I am a member, and I mean to 

Swift. — Keep moving. 

Houghton. — Why, I mean to speak, 1 assure you; 
and 

Swift. — Push on, then. 

HOUGHTON. — What, speak my speech? That I will — 
I'll speak it. 

Swift (to his father). — Oh, the mischief! don't yawn 
so. 

Father (to his son), — I never get a comfortable nap, 
never ! 

Swift (to his father). — You have a very good chance 
now — confound all speeches — oh ! 

HOUGHTON. — Pray be seated. ( They sit one on eaeh 
side of Houghton!) Now we will suppose that the chair. 
( He points to a e/iair.) 

Father. — Suppose it the chair! Why, it is a chair, isn't 
it? 

Houghton."- Pshaw] l mean 

SWIFT. — He knows what you mean — 'tis his humor. 
HOI en iu\.. ( )li, he's witty ! 

Swift. — Oh, remarkably brilliant indeed. [He looks 
significantly at his father,) 

Hoi GHTON (to the father). — What, .ire you a wit, sir? 



THE RESTLESS YOUTH. 4 1 

Father. — A what? Yes, I am — I am a wit. 

Houghton. — Well, now I will begin. Oh, what a delic- 
ious moment! The house when they approve, cry " Hear 
him, hear him ! " I only give you a hint in case anything 
should strike you. 

Swift. — Push on. — (Aside.) I can never stand it. 

Houghton. — Now shall I charm them. (He addresses 
the chair.) " Sir, had I met your eye at an earlier hour, I 
should not have blinked the present question, but having 
caught what has fallen from the opposite side, I shall scout 
the idea of going over the usual ground " — (Aside.) What? 
no applause yet? (Old Swift has fallen asleep and young 
Swift has risen and gone to the back of the platform and is 
presumably looking out of the window?) " But I shall proceed, 
and I trust without interruption." (He looks round and 
discovers the father asleep.) Upon my soul, this is — what 
do you mean, sir? 

Father (waking up). — What's the matter? — Hear him! 
hear him ! 

Houghton. — Pray, sir, do you not blush at this — (He 
catches sight of young Swift at the window.) What the devil ! 

Swift (looking round) . — Hear him ! hear him ! 

Houghton (in despair). — By the soul of Cicero, 'tis too 
much! 

Father. — Oh, Johnny, for shame to fall asleep! — I mean, 
to look out of the window. I am very sorry, sir, anything 
should go across the grain — (Aside.) I say, John, smooth 
him down. 

Swift (to his father) . — I will, I will j but what shall I 
say? — (Aloud.) The fact is, sir, I heard a cry of fire — 
upon — the — the — the water, and, 

Houghton. — Well, but do you wish to hear the end of 
my speech? 



42 Mil- RES1 LESS Yi HJTH. 

Swift. — Upon my honor, I do. 

HOUGHTON. — Then wre will only suppose this little inter- 
ruption a message from the Lords, or something of that 
sort. {'/'//(• Swifts sit; young Swift twists about uneasily!) 
Where did I leave off? 

SwiFT. — Oh ! I recollect ; at u I therefore briefly con- 
clude with moving an adjournment.'' {He rh 

HOUGHTON. — Nonsense ! no such thing ! (He puts the 
young man down in the chair!) Oh ! I remember! - 1 
shall therefore proceed, and I trust without interruption " 

Si rvant enters* 

(jet out of the room, you villain ! — " Without interrup- 
tion " 

Servant. — 1 say, sir 

Swift. — Hear him ! hear him ! 

SERVANT. — Dinner is waiting. 

Swift (jumping up). — Dinner waiting! Come a! 
sir. 

Houghton. — Never mind the dinner. 

Swift. — But I like it smoking. 

Father. — So do I. Be it ever so little, let me have it 
hot. 

Houghton. — Won't you hear my speech? 

SwiFT. — To be sure we will — but now to dinner. Come, 
we'll move together. Capital speech ! Tush on, sir. Come 
along, dad. Tush him on, dad. {They force Houghton out.) 



TESTING THE SUITORS. 



CHARACTERS. 

Squire Penniman, a kind, bid shrewd gentleman of middle 
life. 

Colonel Harrington, a self confident, fine- appearing young 
man of great wealth and aristocracy. 

Mr. Carter, a modest, honest young man, of no greatfortune 
or family. 

A Servant. 

Situation. — Squire Penniman is the guardian of a fair 
young lady, Ada Denton, who has innumerable suitors. 
Two in particular claim her hand. The Squire takes 
advantage of the failure of Brown and Company to 
find out by stratagem the real worth of the two suitors 
and the sincerity of their affections. 

The value of the dialogue depends on showing the 
great devotioji of the Colonel at first and his vain at- 
tempts to explain himself later. 

The scene is laid in the elegant library of Squire 
Penniman. There a7-e books, a desk, table, etc., in the 
room. 
Enter Squire Penniman, followed by a servant. 

Squire Penniman {speaking to servant). — Not at home 
to any one, excepting Colonel Harrington and Mr. Carter. — 
{Servant goes out.) This failure of Brown's great house, 

43 



44 rESTTNG THE SUITORS. 

however deplorable in itself, at least bids fair to put an end 
to my troubles as a guardian. Evei since Ada Denton has 
been' under my care, she has been besieged by as many 
suitors as Penelope. We shall see whether the poor des- 
titute girl will prove as attractive as the rich heiress. Har- 
rington is an ardent lover, Carter a modest one ; Harring- 
ton is enormously rich, Carter comparatively poor; but 

whether either 

Enter Servant. 
Servant.— Colonel Harrington, sir. 

Enter Colonel Harrington. 
Squire.— My dear Colonel, good morning ! I took the 
liberty of sending for you. {Servant goes out.) 

Colonel Harrington {bows).— Most proud and happy 
to obey your summons. I believe that 1 am before my 
time ; but where the heart is, you know, Squire Penniman— 
how 'is the fair Ada Denton? 1 hope she caught no 
cold in the Park yesterday? 

Squire.— None that I have heard of. 
Colonel.— And that she has recovered the Eatigu< 
Tuesday's ball? 

Squire.— She does not complain. 

CoLONl i. -But there is a delicacy, a fragility in herlove- 
liness, that mingles fear of her health, with admiration oi 
her beauty. 

Squire.— She is a pretty girl, and a good girl ; and a 

good girl, considering that, m her quality of an In 

she has been spoilt by the adulation of even one that has 

approached her ever since she was bom. 

Colonel {with peat apparent devotion), oh, my dear 
sir you know not how often I have wished that MissDenton 
we're not an heiress, that 1 might have an opportunity of 



TESTING THE SUITORS. 45 

proving to her and to you the sincerity and disinterested- 
ness of my passion. 

Squire. — I am glad to hear you say so. 

.Colonel. — I may hope, then, for your approbation and 
your influence with your fair ward ? You know my fortune 
and family? 

Squire. — Both are unexceptionable. 

Colonel. — The estate which I inherited from my father 
is large and unencumbered ; that which will devolve to me 
from the maternal side, is still more considerable. I am 
the last of my race, Squire Penniman ; and my mother and 
aunts are, as you may imagine, very desirous to see me 
settled. They are most anxious to be introduced to Miss 
Denton ; my aunt, Lady Lucy, more particularly so. Ada 
Denton, even were she portionless, is the very creature 
whom they would desire as a relative ; the very being to 
enchant them. 

Squire. — I am extremely glad to hear you say so. 

Enter Mr. Carter. 

Mr. Carter ! pray be seated. I sent for you both, gentle- 
men, as the declared lovers of my ward, Miss Denton, in 
order to make to you an important communication. 

Mr. Carter. — I am afraid that I can guess its import. 

Colonel. — Speak, Squire Penniman — pray speak ! 

Squire. — Have you heard of the failure of the great firm 
of Brown and Co. ? 

Colonel. — Yes. But what has that to do with Ada 
Denton? — To the point, my good sir; to the point. 

Squire. — Well, then, to come at once to the point, — did 
you never hear that, though not an ostensible partner, Mr, 
Denton's large property was lodged in the firm ? 

Mr. Carter. — I had heard such a report. 



46 n>ii\o THE fVirORS. 

1 LONEL. — Mr. Denton's property in Brown's house ! the 
house of a notorious speculator ! What Incredible impru- 
dence ! — all? 

Squire. — The whole. 

COLONEL. — What miraculous lolly ! {He starts to his 
feet.) Then Miss Denton is a beggar. 

SQUIRE.— Whilst I live, Ada Denton can never want a 
home. But she is now a portionless orphan ; and she 
desired that you, gentlemen, might be apprised of the 
change of her fortunes, with all convenient speed, and 
assured that no advantage would be taken of proposals 
made under circumstances so different. 

Mr. Carter {with sincerity). — Oh, how needless an as- 
surance ! 

Colonel (jot'tli hesitation). — Miss Denton displays a 
judicious consideration. 

Squire (with a little sarcasm). — I am, however, happy to 
find, Colonel Harrington, that your affection is so entirely 
centered on the lovely young woman apart from her riches, 
that you will feel nothing but pleasure in an opportunity of 
proving the disinterestedness of your love. 

Colonel {hesitatingly). — Why, it must be- confessed, 
Squire Penniman 

SQUIRE. Your paternal estate is so splendid as to render 
you quite independent of fortune in a wife. 

Colonel (he walks hack ana* forth).— Why, y-e-s. But 
really, my estate ; what with the times and one drawback 

and another. Nobody knows what 1 pay in annuities to 

my father's old servants. In Eact, Squire Penniman, 1 am 

not a rich man ; not by any means a rich man. 

ire, — Then vour great expectations from your mother, 

Lad) Sarah, and your aunt, Lady Lucy. 
Colonel. — Yes. But, my dear sir, you have no notion 



TESTING THE SUITORS. 47 

of the aversion which Lady Lucy entertains for unequal 
matches — matches where all the money is on one side. 
They never turn out well, she says ; and Lady Lucy is a 
sensible woman — a very sensible woman. As far as my 
observation goes, I must say that I think her right. 

Squire. — In short, then, Colonel Harrington, you no 
longer wish to marry my ward? 

Colonel. — Why really, my good sir, it is with great 
regret that I relinquish my pretensions ; and if I thought 
that the lady's affections were engaged — but I am not vain 
enough to imagine that, with a rival of so much merit 

Mr. Carter {aside). — Contemptible coxcomb ! ■ 

Colonel. — Pray, assure Miss Denton of my earnest 
wishes for her happiness, and of the sincere interest I shall 
always feel in her welfare. I have the honor to wish you a 
good morning. (Going.) 

Squire. — A moment, sir, if you please. What say you, 
Mr. Carter? Have these tidings wrought an equal change 
in your feelings? 

Mr. Carter. — They have indeed wrought a change, sir, 
and a most pleasant change ; since they have given hope 
such as I never dared to feel before. God forgive me for 
being so glad of what has grieved her ! Tell Ada Denton 
that for her sake, I wish that I were richer but that never 
shall I wish she was rich for mine. Tell her that if a fortune 
adequate to the comforts, though not to the splendors of 
life, a pleasant country-house, a welcoming family, and an 
adoring husband, can make her happy, I lay them at her 
feet. Tell her 

Squire. — My dear fellow, you had far better tell her 
yourself. I have no doubt but she will accept your disin- 
terested offers, and I shall heartily advise her to do so ; but 
you must make up your mind to a little disappointment. 



4 S TESTING mi SUITORS. 

Mr. Carter (puzzled).— How! what! How < an 1 be 
disappointed, so that Miss Denton will be mine? 

Squire. -Disappointment is not quite the word. But 

von will haw to encounter a little derangement of your 
generous schemes. When yon take my pretty ward, yon 
must e'en take the burden of her riches along with her. 
Colonel (astonished).— She is not mined, then? 

Squirk.— No, sir: Mr. Denton did at one time pUu 
considerable sum in the firm of Me>srs. Brown; but finding 
the senior partner to be, as yon observed, Colonel, a 
notorious speculator, he prudently withdrew it. 

Colonel (indignantly). —And this was a mere stratagem? 

Squire. — Really, sir, I was willing to prove the sin< - 
of your professions before confiding to you such a treasure 
as Ada Denton, and I think that the result has fully justified 
the experiment. But for yonr comfort, I don't think she 
would have had you, even if you had happened to behave 
better. My young friend here had made himself a lodg- 
ment in her heart, of which his present conduct proves him 
to be fully worthy. I have the honor to wish you a very 
good morning. [Colonel Harrington goes out.) — Come, 
Carter, Ada's in the music-room. ( They go oi/t.) 



THE EMPEROR AND THE DESERTER. 



CHARACTERS. 

Frederick the Great, Emperor of Prussia. 

Fritz Schmidt, a young shipcarpenier who deserted from 
the army. 

Mrs. Schmidt, mother to Fritz. 

An Imperial Officer, in uniform. 

Situation. Schmidt has deserted from the German army, 
gone to Holland to become a carpenter. Young Frede- 
rick, seeing the throne to be his in the near future, goes 
to the same place under an assumed family name and 
works with Fritz, whose character is so pleasing to the 
youth that when he becomes Emperor he seeks him out 
for the superintendency of his shipping interests. 

There should be marked contrast in the dress of 
Frederick and Fritz. 

Enter Mrs. Schmidt and Fritz. 

Fritz. — Well, mother, I mils' n't be skulking about here 
in Leipzig any longer. I must leave you and go back to 
Holland, to my shipbuilding. At the risk of my life I came 
here and at the risk of my life I must go back. 

Mrs. Schmidt. — Ah ! Fritz, Fritz ! if it hadn't been for 
your turning deserter, you might have been a corporal by 
this time. 

Fritz. — Look you, mother ! I was made a soldier against 
my will, and the more I saw of a soldier's life the more I 
4 49 



5° 'I Hi- l Mil ROR AND THE l'l 51 ki I k. 

hated it. As a poor journeyman carpenter 1 am at least 

free and independent ; and if you will go with me to Hoi 
land, you shall keep house for me and take care of my n 

Mrs. Schmidt. — I should be a drag on you, Fritz : \ 
will be wanting to get married by and by; moreover, it 
will be hard lor me to leave the old home at my time of 
life. (A knock is heard at the door. ) 

Fritz. — Some one is knocking at the door. Wait, 
mother, till I have concealed myself. [Hurries about.) 
Enter Frederick in citizen's dt 

FREDERICK. — What ho ! comrade! No dodging j Don't 
try to get out of the room. Didn't I see you through the 
window as I stood in the street? 

FRITZ. — Frederick ! My old fellow-workman in the ship- 
yard at Saardam! Give me your hand, my hearty ! < . 
shake hands,) How came you to be here in Leipzig? No 
shipbuilding going on in this part of the country, surely? 

Frkdkkick. — No; but a plenty of it at Hamburg, under 
the Emperor. 

Fritz. — They say that the Emperor is in Leipzig at this 
present time? 

Frederick. — Yesj he passed through your street this 
morning. 

FRITZ. — So I heard. But I was afraid to look out at 
him. I say, Frederick, how did you find me out? 

Frederick.— Why, happening to see the name of Mrs. 
Schmidt over the door, it occurred to me, after 1 returned 
to the palace 

Fritz. — To the palace? 

FrEDERK k.- Yes J 1 always i all the place at which I put 
up a palace. It's a way 1 have. 

Fritz. You always were & funny fellow, Frederick I 

I ki Dl kick. — As 1 was saying, it occurred to me that Mrs. 



THE EMPEROR AND THE DESERTER. 5 I 

Schmidt might be the mother or aunt of my old messmate ; 
and so I put on this simple disguise, and 

Fritz. — Ha, ha, ha! Sure enough, it is a disguise for 
you, — a disguise, Frederick, you're not much used to, — the 
disguise of a gentleman. Where did you get such fine 
clothes ? 

Frederick (sternly). — How dare you, sir, interrupt me 
in my story? 

Fritz. — Eh? Don't joke in that way again, Frederick, 
if you love me. Do you know, you half frightened me out 
of my boots by the tone in which you said " How dare you, 
sir? " If you had been a corporal of marines, you couldn't 
have done it better. 

Frederick. — Well, well, you see how it was I happened 
to drop in. Ah, Fritz ! Many's the big log we've chopped 
at together, through the long summer day, in old Von 
Block's shipyard. 

Fritz. — That we have, Frederick ! Why not go back 
with me to Saardam? 

Frederick. — I can get better wages at Hamburg. 

Fritz. — If it weren't that I'm afraid of being overhauled 
for taking that long walk away from my post, when I was a 
soldier, I would go with you to Hamburg. 

Frederick.— How happened you to venture back here ? 
The laws, you know, are pretty severe against deserters. 
What if I should inform against you? 

Fritz. — You couldn't ; for, when I made you my confid- 
ant, you promised you'd never blab. Ah ! I told you my 
secret, but you didn't tell vae yours, — though you confessed 
that you had one. How happened I to venture back? 
Well, you must know that this old mother of mine wanted 
badly to see me ; and then I had left behind me here a 
sweetheart. 



=,2 THE I-.MI'I Rl IR AND THE l»I -1 Kl 1 R. 

Frederick. A sweetheart! Ah! 1 see, now, what 
brought you back. 

Fritz. — Don't laugh, Frederick ! she has waited for me, 

faithful creature that she is, these five years. 

MRS. SCHMIDT. — Yes; and had no lack of offers, and 
good ones, too, during that time. 

Fritz. — And the misery of it is, that I am still ten 
to take her back with me to Holland. but next year, if 
my luck continues, I mean to return and marry her. 

FREDERICK. — Do you know that a fellow can make a 
pretty little sum by exposing a deserter? 

Fritz. — Don't joke on that subject, Frederick. You'll 
frighten the old woman. Frederick, old boy, I'm go glad 
to see you — (Shakes hands, but his attention is suddenly 
arrested as he looks out the window over Frederick's 
shoulders?) Hallo! Soldiers at the door? What does this 
mean? An officer? Frederick, excuse me, but I'm par- 
ticular about the company I keep. 

Frederick. — Stay! I give you my word it is not you 
they want. They are friends of mine. 

Fritz. — Oh, if that's the case. I'll stay. But, do you 
know one of those fellows looks wonderfully like my old 
commanding officer? 

Enter Officer. 

Officer {bowing an J handing some papers).- A des- 
patch from Berlin, your Majesty, claiming your immediate 
attention. ( Frederick tokos it and nods it.) 

Mrs. Schmidt (to Fritz). — Majesty! He called him 
majesty ! 

Fritz. — Majesty ! I saw Frederick, what does he mean 
by majesty? 

(Jiii' i R. — Knave ! knew you not that this is the Emp< 

FRITZ. — Oh ! you can't fool me ! I've known him you 



THE EMPEROR AND THE DESERTER. 53 

see before now. This is my old friend Frederick Meyer. 

Officer. — Down on your knees, blockhead, to Frederick, 
Emperor of Prussia. 

Fritz. — Blockhead ? Mr. Officer, if it's equally agreeable 
to you, keep a civil tongue in your head. 

Mrs. Schmidt {kneeling to the Emperor ) . — O your Majesty, 
your Majesty, don't slay the poor boy ! He knew no better ! 
Indeed, he knew no better ! He's only my son — the staff 
of my age. Let him be whipped; but don't kill him — 
don't kill him ! 

Fritz {pulling her up). — Nonsense, mother! This is 
only one of Frederick's jokes. He keeps it up well, though. 
Ha-ha — umph. And those despatches you are reading, 
Frederick ! 

Officer. — Irreverent blockhead ! How dare you in- 
terrupt his Majesty? 

Fritz. — Twice you've called me blockhead. Don't you 
think that's being rather familiar? Frederick, have you 
any objection to my throwing your friend out of the window? 

Officer. — Ha 1 Now I look closer, I remember you. 
You're a deserter. I arrest you. 

Fritz {aside) . — It's all up with me ! And there stands 
Frederick as unconcerned as if nothing had happened. 

Mrs. Schmidt. — I'm all in a maze. Good Mr. Officer, 
spare the poor boy ! Take all I have — but spare him ! 

Officer. — Impossible ! He must go before a cour-tmartial. 
He must be shot. 

Mrs. Schmidt. — O woe is me ! Woe is me ! That ever 
my poor boy should be shot. 

Frederick. — Officer, I have occasion for the services of 
your prisoner. The arrest is set aside. 

Officer. — Your Majesty's will is absolute. {Frederick 
and the Officer converse in dumb show.) 



54 THE EMPEROR AND THE DESERTER. 

Frit/ [aside). — Majesty again! What docs it all mean? 
A light breaks in upon me. Now I remember,— there were 
rumors in Holland just before I left, that the Kmperor had 
been working in one of the shipyards. Can my Frederick 
be the Emperor? 

Frederick.— Well, Schmidt, you have my secret now,— 
and we are even. 

Fritz. — And you are 

Frederick.— The Emperor. 

Mrs. Schmidt (kneeling).— O your Majesty! Change 
his punishment to imprisonment for life. 

Frederick (aiding her to rise).— Rise, Madam. Your 
son, Baron Schmidt, is safe. 

Mrs. Schmidt.— Baron Schmidt? 

FREDERICK.— I want him to superintend my shipyard at 
1 [amburg. No words ! Prepare, both of you, to leave for 
the new city to-morrow. Baron Schmidt, make that sweet- 
heart of yours a Baroness this very night and bring her with 
you. No thanks. I understand it all. I have business 
claiming my care, or I would stop to see the wedding. 
( He hands Schmidt a purse.) Take and use, as you may 
need, this purse of ducats. My secretary shall call with 
further orders in the morning. Farewell. (He goes out). 
FRITZ (dazed).— O Frederick, Frederick '.—I mean your 

Majesty, your Majesty! 

Mrs. Schmidt.— Down on your knees, Fnt/..— I mean 
Baron Schmidt ! Down on your knees ! (Aside, as she goes 
out.) To think that Frit/, should live to be a baron ! 

Fun/ (with a twinkle in his eye).— That court martial, 
Mr. Officer, does not seem likely to come off. 

Off* ik. -Don't speak of it, baron. 1 am youi very 
humble servant, Baron.— After you, baron. (Fritogpes out 
followed by the officer.) 



MIKE GETS A JOB. 



CHARACTERS. 

Mr. Goodrich, a well-dressed man of middle age. 

Michael Carnes, an Irishman in search of a job, looking a 
little dilapidated 

Situation. — Mr. Goodrich is seated at a table ?-eading or 
writing when a servant shows in the Irishman. The 
great change of topics by Mr. Goodrich is merely 
meant to make Mike talk while his character is esti- 
mated. 

Mike {taking off his hat and bowing). — An' plaze yer 
honor, would ye be after giving employment to a faithful 
servant, who has been recimmended to call upon yer honor? 

Goodrich. — You appear to have walked some distance ; 
does it rain? 

Mike. — Never a drop, plaze yer honor. 

Goodrich {looking out at window). — Ah ! I see the sun 
shines now ; post nubila Phoebus. 

Mike. — The post has not yet arrived, sir. 

Goodrich. — What may 1 call your name? 

Mike. — My name is Michael Carnes, and I have always 
been called Mike, and you are at liberty to call me that 
same. 

Goodrich. — Well, Mike, who was your late master? 

Mike. — Mr. Jacobs, plaze yer honor ; and a nicer man 
never brathed. 

55 



56 MlKi GETS a JOB. 

Goodrich.— How long did you live with Mr. Jacobs? 

Miki . —In troth, sir, 1 can't tell. I passed my tin* 
pleasantly in his sarvice, that 1 niver kept any account ol 
it, at all, at all. 1 might have lived with him all the days 
of my life, and a great deal longer, if I had plazed tod 

Goodrich. —Why, then, did you leave him? 

MlKE. — It was by mutual agrament The truth was, a 
slight difference arose between us, and he said I should not 
live with him longer; and at the same instant, you Bee, 1 
declared 1 would not live with him : so we parted on g 
terms — by agrament, you see. 

Goodrich. — Was not your master a proud man? 

Mikk. — Indade he was — bless his honest sowl ! He 
would not do a mane act for the univarse. 

Goodrich. — Well, Mike, how old are you now? 

MlKE. — I am just the same age of Patrick O'Uarv ; he 
and I were born the same wake. 

Goodrich. — And how old is he? 

Mike. — He is just my age. He and I are just of an age, 
you see, only one of us is older than the other ; but which 
is the oldest I cannot say, neither can Patrick. 

GOODRICH. — Were you born in Dublin? 

MlKE. — No, sir, pla/e yer honor, though 1 might have 
been, if 1 had desired ; but, as 1 always preferred the 
country, 1 was born there; and, plaze God, if I live and do 
well, I'll be buried in the same parish 1 was born in. 

GOODRICH. — You can write, 1 suppose. 

MlKE. — Yes, sir : as fast as a dog can trot. 

GOODRICH. — What is the usual mode of traveling in hi 
land? 

Mdce. — Why, sir, if you travel bv water, you must take a 
boat: and, if you travel by land, either in a chaise or on 

horseback : and thim as can't afford either of them ..re 



MIKE GETS A JOB. 5 7 

obliged to trudge it on foot, which to my mind, is decidedly 
the safest and chapest mode of moving about. 

Goodrich. — And which is the pleasantest season for 
traveling ? 

Mike. — Faith, sir, I think that season whin >a man has 
most money in his pocket. 

Goodrich. — I think your roads are passably good. 

Mike. — They are all quite passable, if you only pay the 
tollman. 

Goodrich. — I understand you have many black cattle in 
Ireland. 

Mike. — Faith, we have plenty of every color. 

Goodrich. — I think you have too much rain in your 
country. 

Mike. — So every one says ; but Sir Boyle has promised 
to bring in an act of Parliament in favor of fair weather, 
yes, sir; and I am sure the poor hay-makers and turf- 
cutters will bless him for it. He is the man that first 
proposed that every quart-bottle should hold just two pints. 

Goodrich. — As you have many fine rivers, I suppose you 
have an abundance of good fish. 

Mike. — And well you may say that \ for water never wet 
better ones. Why, sor, I won't tell you a lie; but, if you 
were at the Boyne, you could get salmon and trout for 
nothing ; and if you were at Ballyshanny, you'd get them 
for much less. 

Goodrich. — Well, Mike, you are a bright fellow. Come 
in to-morrow and I'll see what I can do for you. 

Mike. — Pace to your good sowl ! I'll be on hand, sor. 
{He bows and goes out, and then Mr. Goodrich goes out.) 



THE STUPID LOVER. 

CHARACT1 RS. 

Margaret, a plainly-dressed young lady. 
Donald, a well-dressed young gentleman. 
Situation. — Constance, with whom Donald is desperately 

in love has just left the room in bail humor. Mar- 
garet is trying to fell Donald that Consi w I cu deeply 
returns his affection, hut Donald is stupid to the end. 
The references to Donald in the scene which follows, 
must not he made too pointed by MARGARET, or the 
delicacy of the situation will be lost. 

MARGARET sits near the front of the platform and 
has some fancy work in her hands. DONALD, 
after the first exclamation, walks to and fro behind 
her. 

There should be two chairs and a small stand on 
which is plaeed a vase of flowers. If the platform is 
large enough other accessories may be added, as a table, 
near the front, a bookcase at the rear, a mirror at the 
side. Any object, such as a book, may be used instead 
of a rase offlowers, if desired, 

Donald (to Constance). — Oh, Constance! {To Mar- 
garet.) What have I done? 

Margaret {aside). — Oh, it isn't what you've done, 
Donald, it's what vou don't do. [Aloud,) Oh, it's only 

5« 



THE STUPID LOVER. 59 

a little temper. You say she's an angel. Well, that's the 
temper of an angel. 

Donald. — I'm afraid it's my coming here that puts her 
out. 

Margaret. — Oh, no — it isn't. She was going out be- 
fore you came. {Pause.) To tell you the truth, Donald, 
there's something very seriously the matter with Constance. 
I'm a good deal worried about her. 

Donald. — You don't mean she's ill, Margaret? It seems 
very sudden. It's nothing, really — really dangerous, I 
suppose ? 

Margaret. — Well, she's got it very bad, and I shouldn't 
be surprised if she never got over it. 

Donald. — Why have you never told me of this before? 
Has it been going on for long? 

Margaret. — It took her last summer — a short time after 
you first met her, in fact ; and it's been getting worse ever 
since. 

Donald {going a little towards her) . — Has nothing been 
done for it? 

Margaret. — Nothing. 

Donald. — But surely 

Margaret. — It's high time something was. Of course 
it is. Will you help me to do it? 

Donald {going to her and sitting beside her) . — You know 
I will, Margaret, and how glad I shall be of the chance. 
I'd give my right hand to save her an instant's pain. 

Margaret '{looking at him). — Offer it to her. It might 
do her good. 

Donald {rising, mistaking her meaning). — It isn't kind 
to ridicule me. It's only a figure of speech, I know, but I 
meant it. {Crosses.) 

Margaret {with a sigh) . — He is stupid ! 



Go mi. STUPID LO\ 1 k. 

Donald. — Who? I? 

Margaret. — You ! Youstupidl I Lcioos,Do! — 

what an idea ! No, I was thinking of him. 

Donald.— Him 1 What him? 

Margaret.— Why, the him. The him that all this 
trouble is about. The him that Constance is in love 
with. 

Donald. — In love with? 

Margaret. — Yes, in love with. We poor little weak 
women do fall in love sometimes ; we're not like you men. 
You cynical men of the world, of course, never do such 
foolish things. 

DONALD. — I wish to God we never did. We're fools for 
doing so. (Pacing up and down the room.) 1 can't be- 
lieve it. (Crosses.) 

Margaret. — Can't believe what? 

Donald (funis). — That Constance can be in love. She 
is so cold. She's said herself over and over again that she 
could never love anybody. 

Margaret.— You don't expect a girl to love anybody, do 
you? Constance is very particular in that sort of thing. 
" Can't be in love." Why anything else than a man would 
have seen it for himself six months ago. 

DONALD.— You're right. I've been blind. I'm begin- 
ning to see now. I'm beginning to understand. I'm be- 
ginning to understand why she's always been SO hard and 
(old to me, why she'sbeen annoyed at my coming here. 1 

suppose I'vebeen getting in the other fellow's way. Who— 
who is it? Do I know him? 

Margaret. Urn — ml [ hardly think you da 

I >ONALD. — What's his name? 

Margaret.— Well, 1 don't know whether 1 ought to tell 

you without Constance's consent- you see. 



THE STUPID LOVER. 6 1 

Donald {turning round sharply). — Margaret, you're 
playing with me. You're joking. 

Margaret. — I'm not joking, Donald. Constance loves 
this man with her whole heart and soul as only women do 
love. Her whole life is in his hands. It's no joking matter 
for her. 

Donald {throws himself into chair and leans his head 
on his hand) . — Nor for me, either. 

Margaret {aside). — Poor boy! It's too bad to tease 
him, really. 

Donald {after a pause, in a changed, hard voice). — What 
sort of fellow is it? Can't you tell me anything about him? 
What do you think of him, Margaret ? 

Margaret. — /like him. 

Donald. — Do you think he'll make her happy? 

Margaret. — Yes, I really think he would. He loves her 
devotedly — I'm sure of that, and he is as kind and gentle 
as he is good and true. He's my idea of a gentleman, and 
I think Constance will be very lucky to get him. 

Donald {sneeringly). — I should think so, too. It's a 
pity he hasn't one or two faults, though. Perfection is apt 
to become monotonous. {Rises and resumes his pacing.) 

Margaret. — Oh, he's got faults. There's nothing to 
grumble at on that head, I assure you. To begin with, he's 
exceedingly — well — not exactly stupid, you know, but dull 
of comprehension. And then, he's conceited and foppish, 
{glancing at his dress,) and extravagant, {looking at 
flowers.) and sarcastic, and proud, and obstinate. And 
smokes — and drinks — and tells awful stories, and swears — 
fearful ! I heard him once when he tumbled over the cat 
in the dark, and didn't know I was there. Ugh ! it makes 
my blood run cold to think of it. And the cat swore, too, 
very nearly as bad. 'Twas a regular slanging match. It 



62 THE STUPID loM K. 

was his fault though, he'd no business to tumble over the 
poor animal — only he's so clumsy. ( Donald, in walking 
about has just knocked up against the tabic and upset a 
full of flowers?) And then he's occasionally bad-temp 

and at times quite violent. {He is ramming the Jh \ 
back into the vase very roughly.) 

DONALD. — I'm sorry for your notion of a gentleman. / 
should call him — perhaps I had better not say what I should 
call him. Poor Constance ! Ah, well ! I hope he will 
make her happy, that's all. What's he like? I sup] 
he's good-looking enough. These sort of men are generally 
all right on the outside. {J/e sits so that Margaret has </ 
good p refill • vie u » of h is fa ce . ) 

Margaret {looking at him critically — he docs not notice 
it). — Well, I should hardly call him handsome. He's 
rather good-looking, though, except, perhaps, his nose. 
{Donald now turns round with his back to Margaret. ) I 
don' t always like his manners. 

Donald. — Poor Constance ! Poor Constance ! And 
she's going to marry this — this gentleman / 

Margaret. — I didn't say she was going to marry him. 

DONALD (turning round). — Not going to marry him? 

Margaret. — Oh, and I didn't .say she wasn't going 
marry him, either. All I said was that she was in love 
with him. He. hasn't asked her yet. 

Donald. — Hasn't asked her! 

M IRGARET. — I wish you wouldn't repeat all my words. 
Don't you know any of your own? 

Donald.— But you said he loved her. 

M IRGARET. — I know 1 did. 

Donald.— How do you know he does? 
Margaret.— Why, he's told m< 
Donald. — why doesn't he tell her? 



THE STUPID LOVER. 63 

Margaret. — The very question I keep on asking myself. 

Donald (jumping up). — The man's an idiot ! 

Margaret. — That's just what I say. I get so aggravated 
with him, I can't tell you. I feel inclined sometimes to 
bang his head against the wall. I shall do it one of these 
days, I know I shall. 

Donald. — Yes ! I should like to help you. Has he any 
reason for not asking her? (He stands wrapped in thought 
and answers next two questions mechanically.') 

Margaret. — I think sometimes he hasn't any reason of 
any kind. And she hasn't got much more. They're pretty 
well matched. He is frightened to open his mouth to her, 
and she's afraid to look at him. He's worrying himself to 
death because he can't get her, and she's fretting herself 
into an early grave because he won't have her. And there 
they'll go on playing at this ridiculous game until they each 
die of a broken heart at the cruelty of the other one. Now 
what would you do with a couple like that? 

Donald. — What would I do? 

Margaret. — Yes, what would you do if you were in my 
place ? 

Donald. — If I were in your place ? 

Margaret. — Donald ! (He rises and comes over.) If 
you'll look on that bottom shelf, (Pointing to a book-shelf 
at back) near the end (He follows her directions.') you'll 
find a dictionary. There's a lot of words in that, and if 

Donald. — I beg your pardon. I'm so upset, I hardly 
know what I'm saying. I don't know what you could do, 
really. 

Margaret. — If we could only start them on the right 
track, you know, they'd rush into each other's arms. 

Donald. — You must let him know, somehow that she — 
she cares for him. Can't you drop a hint? 



64 THE STUPID LOV] k. 

Margaret.— Drop a hint I Ah, you evidently don't 
know him. 1 must introduce you to him. I want to have 
your opinion of him? 

Donald.— If you take my advice you'll keep us apart 

( ( ''< 

Margaret.— Oh, I think you'll like him when you know 
him. 

Donald.— Margaret, I'm not of a violent nature. But 
for Heaven's sake, don't let me and this man meet. You've 
done me enough harm as it is, never saving a woid of all 
this before — letting me live on all these months in a fool's 
paradise when you knew there was no hope for me. (Mar- 
garet rises anil crosses while Donald is speaking.) My 
life's ruined. Let that suffice. Don't torture me with the 
sight of the man who has won all the happiness Vvt lost. 
Let him enjoy his triumph. But don't let him conn- near 
enough to me to be strangled. Don't — (Talking rather 
loudly.) 

Margaret. — Hush ! Not so loud I He's here 1 

Donald (stating round). — Here: Wh< 

Margaret ( the has come close up to him and now takes 
him by the back of the head, turns him round and thrusts 
his face close against the looking-glass).* — There! (She 
goes out.) 

I )« >\ ml. — Oh, Margaret. ( Donald follows her.) 

* If there is no minor on the wall, a small hand -mil TOI may be 
ready for Margaret to pi< k it up just before she mv\ •' Then 



OUR DAUGHTER. 



CHARACTERS. 



Mr. Duffy, a stock-bi-oker, who has accumulated a fortune and 
moved uptown. 

Mrs. Duffy, a good sized woman, anxious to make some 
show in the world. 

Situation. — Mr. Duffy goes home at noon earlier than 
usual in order to consult his wife about their daughter 's 
prospects. Both have been thinking and planning for 
her future welfare and each fears the other has not her 
happiness most at heart. Each rejects the other \s pro- 
posals with indignation itntil the suitor's name is pro- 
nounced. They then rejoice that both had the same 
man in mind. 

Mrs. Duffy is sitting by a table, and is working at some 
embroidery, when Mr. Duffy enters with his overcoat 
011 and his hat in his hand. 
Duffy (he takes oft his overcoat and puts it on a chair). 

— My dear, there's rare news from the Exchange. Mining 

stock is mounting every minute. • 

Mrs. Duffy {she does not turn round to greet hint) . — I 

am glad to hear it, my dear. 

Duffy. — Yes, I thought you would be glad to hear of it. 

I have just sent the clerk to watch how matters go — I should 

have gone myself, but I wanted to speak of an affair of 

some importance to you 

Mrs. Duffy (with some impatience). — Ay, ay, you have 

65 



66 OUR DAUGHTER. 

always some affair of great importance. (She looks round 
and sees his coat and hat on tin- chair.) Why didn't you 
leave your coat in the hall ! 

DUFFY. — Mv dear, don't talk about that coat. I have 
another matter. — I have been thinking that it is high time 
we had fixed our daughter; 'tis high time that Charlotte 
were married. 

Mrs. Duffy. — You think so, do you? I have thought 
so many a time these three years ; and so has she too, I 
fancy. I wanted to talk to you about the same subjei t. 

DUFFY. — You did? AN'ell ; he, he, he! — I vow I'm 
pleased at this — Why, our inclinations do seldom jump to- 
gether. 

Mrs. Duffy. — Jump ! No, I should wonder if they did, 
and how comes it to pass now? I suppose you have been 
employing some of your brokers, as usual ; or perhaps ad- 
vertising, as you used to do ; but I expect to hear no more 
of these tricks, now that we are come up to the fashionable 
end of the town. 

Duffy. — No, no, my dear, this is no such matter. The 
gentleman I intend 

Mrs 1 Mi i v. — You intend ! 

1 )uffy. — Yes, 1 intend. 

Mrs. Duffy.— You intend. What! do you presume to 
dispose of my child without my consent? Mind your 
money matters, Mr. Duffy: look at your bulls and your 
bears, — but leave to me the management of my child. [She 
rises ami walks to and fro,) What ! Things are come to 
a fine pass indeed ! I suppose you intend to marry the 
poor innocent to one of your city (ionics, your clerks, your 
supercargoes, packers or dry salters ; but I'll have none of 
them, Mr. Duffy, no. I'll have none of them. It shall never 
be said, that, after coming to this end of the town, the 



OUR DAUGHTER. 67 

great Miss Duffy was forced to trudge into the city again 
for a husband. 

Duffy {sinking back in his chair aghast) . — Why, you are 
mad, Mrs. Duffy. 

Mrs. Duffy. — No, you shall find I am not mad, Mr. 
Duffy; — that I know how to dispose of my child, Mr. 
Duffy. — What ! did my poor dear brother leave his fortune 
to me and my child, and shall she now be disposed of with- 
out consulting me? {She covers her eyes with her hand- 
kerchief, and falls into her chair.) 

Duffy {bending forward in his chair). — Why, you are 
mad, certainly ! If you will but hear me, you shall be con- 
sulted — Have I not always consulted you ? — To please you, 
was I not inclined to marry my daughter to a lord ? And 
has she not been hawked about, till the peerage of three 
kingdoms turn up their noses at you and your daughter? 
Did I not treat with my Lord Spindle, with Signor Macaroni, 
and with Herr Eselmann? And did we not agree, for the 
first time in our lives, that it would be better to find out a 
merchant for her, as the people of quality now-a-days 
marry for only a winter or so? 

Mrs. Duffy {relenting and turning toward hhn) . — Very 
well, we did so ; and who, pray, is the proper person to 
find out a match for her? Who, but her mother, Mr. 
Duffy? — who goes into company with no other view, Mr. 
Duffy ; — who flatters herself she is no contemptible judge 
of mankind, Mr. Duffy ; — yes, Mr. Duffy, as good a judge as 
any woman on earth, Mr. Duffy. 

Duffy. — That I believe, Mrs. Duffy. 

Mrs. Duffy. — Who then but me should have the disposal 
of her? And very well I have disposed of her. I have got 
her a husband in my eye. 

Duffy. — You got her a husband? 



68 OUR DAUGHTER. 

Mrs. DUFFY. — Yes, I have got her a husband. 

Duffy {rising and striding about). — No, no, no, Mrs. 
Duffy, that will never do. — What ! have I been toiling up- 
wards of fifty years, — up early, down late, shopkeeper and 

housekeeper, made a great fortune, which I could never 
find in my heart to enjoy — and now, when all the comfort 
1 have in the world, the settlement of my child, is inag 
tion, shall I not speak? Shall I not have leave to approve 
of her husband ? 

Mrs. Duffy. — There, there ! You are getting into your 
tantrums, I see. 

Duffy {with more and more excitement). — What! did 1 
not leave the city, every friend in the world with whom I 
used to pass an evening? Did I not, to please you, take 
this house here? Nay, did I not make a fool of myself by 
going to learn to come in and go out of a room? Did 1 
not put on a sword, too, at your desire? And had ] not like 
to have broken my neck down stairs, by its getting between 
my legs, at that diabolical Lady what d'ye-call-her's rout ? 
And did not all the footmen and chairmen laugh at me? 

Mrs. Duffy {laughing). — And well they might, truly. 
An obstinate old fool 

Duffy. — Ay, ay, that may be; but I'll have my own way 
— I'll give my daughter to the man I like — I'll have no 
Sir This nor Lord Toiher — I'll have no fellow with his hair 
down to his shoulders, and one glass in his eye and 

Mrs. Duffy. — Why, Mr. Duffy, you are certainly mad, 
raving, distracted. — No, the man I propose 

Duffy. — And the man 1 propose 

MRS. DUFFY. — Is a young gentleman oi" fortune, discre- 
tion, parts, sobriety, and connei turns. 

Duffy. — And the man 1 propose is a gentleman of abili- 
ties, fine fortune, prudence, temperance, and every virtue. 



OUR DAUGHTER. 69 

Mrs. Duffy. — And his name is 

Duffy. — And his name is Burton. 

Mrs. Duffy. — Burton ! (She pushes back her chair in 
amazement.) 

Duffy. — Yes, Burton, I say, and a very pretty name, too. 

Mrs. Duffy.— What ! Mr. Burton, of Utica? 

Duffy. — Yes, Mr. Burton of Utica. 

Mrs. Duffy. — Oh, my dear Mr. Duffy, you delight me ! 
Mr. Burton is the very man I meant. 

Duffy. — Is it possible? Why, where have you met him? 

Mrs. Duffy. — Oh, at several places : but particularly at 
Mrs. Grundy's assemblies. 

Duffy. — Indeed ! was ever anything so fortunate ? Didn't 
I tell you that our inclinations agreed ; but I wonder that 
he never told me that he was acquainted with you. 

Mrs. Duffy. — How odd that he should never tell me he 
had met with you ! But I see he is a prudent man ; he was 
determined to be liked by both of us. But where did you 
meet with him ? 

Duffy. — Why, he bought some stock of me ; but I am 

so This is very satisfactory, isn' tit, Mrs. Duffy, to have 

Charlotte so well fixed. 

Mrs. Duffy. — Well, we'd better see the child. (She 
moves away.) 

Duffy. — Wait ! She can't object, can she? 

Mrs. Duffy. — Of course not. — There, Duffy, take away 
that old coat. (She points at it in scorn.) I'll find Char- 
lotte. (She goes out.) 

Duffy (as he gathers up his coat and hat). — Well, who'd 
have thought. (He goes out.) 



HIS OWN PILLS. 



CHARA< I i RS. 



Sir Charles Downing, a tali, elderly, dignified man. 
Doctor Kawphin, a very lean, learned, and timid man, 7l'///i 

spectacles on. 
Mrs. Stout, a very fleshy woman, hostess of the Red Horse 

I mi. 

Situation. — Sir Charles has fallen from his horse and 
thereby sustained some injuries. J/e is quickly carried 
into the Inn. Although in great haste to depart, the 
hostess and the doctor with an eye to business have, up 
to the opening of this dialogue, managed to detain him 
with real and fancied ills. 

Enter the Doctor, followed by Mrs. Si»u i. 
Mrs. Stout. — Nay, nay, another fortnight 
Doctor. — It can't be. The man's as well as I am — 
have sour- mercy '. He hath been here almost three weeks 
already. 

Mrs. Si. a i.— Well, then, a week. 
DOCTOR. — We may detain him a week. 
Enter Sir Char] is, unobserved in tin rear, fn his dressing- 
gown, with a drawn sword* 
You talk now like a reasonable hostess, 
That sometimes has a reck'ning with her i ohm :ien< e. 

Mrs. STOUT.— lie still believes he has an inward bn 



HIS OWN PILLS. 71 

Doctor. — I would to Heaven he had ! Or that he'd 
slipt 
His shoulder blade, or broke a leg or two, 
(Not that I bear his person any malice) 
Or lost an arm, or even sprain'd his ankle ! 

Mrs. Stout. — Ay, broken anything except his neck. 

Doctor. — However, for a week I'll manage him, 

Though he has the constitution of a horse 

A farrier should prescribe for him. 

Sir Charles (aside). — A farrier ! 

Doctor. — To-morrow he must once again be bled ; 
Next day my new-invented patent draught : — 
Then I have some pills prepared. 
On Thursday we throw in the bark; on Friday? — 

Sir Charles (coming forward) . — Well, sir, on Friday? — 
what on Friday? come, 
Proceed 

Doctor. — Discovered ! 

Mrs. Stout. — Mercy, noble sir! (They fall on their 
knees.) 

Doctor. — We crave your mercy. 

Sir Charles. — On your knees? 'tis well ! 
Pray, for your time is short. 

Mrs. Stout. — Nay, do not kill us ! 

Sir Charles. — You have been tried, condemned, and 
only wait 
For execution. Which shall I begin with? 

Doctor. — The lady, by all means, sir ! 

Sir Charles. — Come, prepare. (To the Hostess.) 

Mrs. Stout. — Have pity on the weakness of my sex ! 

Sir Charles. — Tell me, thou quaking mountain of gross 
flesh, 
Tell me, and in a breath, how many poisons — (He raises 



72 HE OWN PILLS. 

his sword threateningly to the doctor, who is about to 
make off.) 
If you attempt it. ( The doctor sinks into a chair. Jo 
Hostess.) have you cooked up for me? 
Mrs. STOUT. — None, as I hope for mercy ! 
Sir Charles. — Is not thy wine a poison? 
Mrs. STOUT. — No, indeed, sir! 
'Tis not, I own, of the first quality : 

But 

Sir Charles. — What? 

Mrs. STOUT.— I always give short measure, sir. 
And ease my conscience that way? 

Sir Charles. — Ease your conscience ! 
I'll ease your conscience tor you ! 
MRS. STOUT, — Mercy, sir ! 

Sir CHARLES. — Rise, if thou canst, and hear me. 
Mrs. Stout. — Your commands, sir? 
Sir Charles. — If in five minutes all things are prepared 
For my departure, you may yet survive. 
Mrs. STOUT. — It shall be done in less. 
Sir Charles. — Away, thou lump-fish ! {She goes out.) 
Doctor {he suddenly drops abjectly to his knees and 
speaks to himself). — So, now comes my turn ! — tis all 
over with me ! — 
There's dagger, rope, and ratsbane in his looks | 

Sir ( 'iiari.i.s. — And now, thou sketch and outline of a 
man ! 
Thou thing that hast no shadow in the sun ! 
'Thou eel in a consumption, eldest born 

Of Death on Famine I Thou anatomy 
( )t a starved pilchard ! — 

I ), ., rOR. I do confess my leanness — I am spare ! 
And therefore spare me I 



HIS OWN PILLS. 73 

Sir Charles. — Why wouldst thou have made me 
A thoroughfare for thy whole shop to pass through? 

Doctor. — Man, you know, must live ! 

Sir Charles. — Yes : he must die, too. 

Doctor. — For my patients' sake ! 

Sir Charles. — I'll send you to the major part of them — 
The window, sir, is open ; — come, prepare 

Doctor. — Pray consider ! (He shakes visibly.) 
I may hurt some one in the street. 

Sir Charles. — Why, then, I'll rattle thee to pieces in a 
dice-box, 
Or grind thee in a coffee-mill to powder ; 
For thou must sup with Pluto :— So, make ready ! 
Whilst I, with this good small sword for a lancet, 
Let thy starved spirit out — for blood thou hast none — 
And nail thee to the wall, where thou shalt look 
Like a dried beetle with a pin stuck through him. 

Doctor. — Consider my poor wife ! 

Sir Charles. — Thy wife ! 

Doctor. — My wife, sir ! 

Sir Charles. — Hast thou dared think of matrimony, too ? 
No flesh upon thy bones, and take a wife? 

Doctor. — I took a wife because I wanted flesh. 
I have a wife and three angelic babes, 
Who, by those looks, are well nigh fatherless ! 

Sir Charles {turning away). — Well, well ! Your wife 
and children shall plead for you. 
Come, come, the pills ! Where are the pills? Produce 
them. 

Doctor. — Here is the box. (He brings oui a large box 
of enormous pills.) 

Sir Charles. — Were it Pandora's, and each single pill 
Had ten diseases in it, you should take them. 



n A HIS OWN PILLS. 

{The doctor holds out the box to Sir Charles who re/uses 

to touch it. The doctor loosens the cover while Sn 
utters these two tints. ) 

DOCTOR.— What, all? (In horror he drops the box and 

the pills roll about the floor.) 
Sir CHARLES. Ay, all; and quickly, too.— Come, sir, 
begin ! 
(The doctor takes one.) That's well :— another. 
DOCTOR. — One's a dose ! 
Sir CHARLES. — Proceed, sir ! 

Doctor.— What will become of me? — (Be crawls slowly 
about the floor while Sir Charles watches and makes 
him swallow all.) 
Let me go home, and set my shop to rights, 
And, like immortal Caesar, die with decency ! 

Sir Charles.— Away ! And thank thy lucky star i have 
not 
Betrayed thee in thy own mortar, or exposed thee * 
For a large specimen of the lizard genus. 

Doctor {with a groan),— Would I were one— for they 

(He puts his hand on his stomach.) can feed on air ! 
Sir Charles (motioning away with his sword). — Home, 

sir ! And be more honest. 
Doctor.— If I am not 
I'll be more wise at least ! (He goes out.) 

Sir Charles (stands sternly watching his departure). — 
Now to other business. (He goes out on the other side.) 



LOUIS XIV. AND HIS MINISTER. 



Adapted from " The Refugees," by A. Conan Doyle. 



CHARACTERS. 

Louis XIV., King of France. 

Louvois, Minister of War. 

Bontems, valet to the King. 

Situation. — Louis XIV. is awaiting the arrival of the Arch- 
bishop of Paris, who is to marry him to Madame de 
Maintenon. His minister of war brings in two bags 
of mail for his inspection. The dialogue is concerned 
with the reading of letters from these bags. 

The King wears a curled wig, a dark coat, black 
under-coat, scarlet silk inner vest, black velvet knee- 
breeches, red stockings, diamond-buckled, high-heeled 
shoes. On his breast are pinned various emblems, 
among them the cross of the order of St. Louis. When 
he walks he carries a cane. 

Louvois and Bontems wear similar costumes though 
less pretentious. 

Louis sits by the table, his chin upon his hands, his elbows 
upon the table, with eyes staring vacantly at the wall, 
in moody, solemn silence. A tap at the door. Louis 
springs up eagerly. Bontems steps fust inside the door. 

Bontems. — Your Majesty, Louvois would crave an inter- 
view. 

King (with a gesture, as he sits) . — Admit him, then. 

75 



76 LOUIS XIV. AND HIS MINISTER. 

Louvois enters and Bontems retires. 

I. mi vois {with a low bow). — Sire, I trust that 1 do not 
intrude upon you. 

King. — No, no, Louvois. My thoughts were in truth be- 
ginning to be very indifferent company, and I am glad to 
be rid of them. 

LOUVOIS. — Your Majesty's thoughts can never, I am sure, 
be anything but pleasant. But 1 have brought you here 
something which I trust may make them even mor< 

King.— Ah ! What is that? 

Louvois. — When so many of our young nobles went into 
Germany and Hungary, you were 'pleased in your wisdom 
to say that you would like well to see what reports they sent 
home to their friends J also what news was sent out from 
the court to them. 

Kino. — Yes. 

Louvois. — I have them here— all that the courier has 
brought in, and all that are gathered to go out, each in its 
own bag. The wax has been softened in spirit, the fasten- 
ings have been steamed, and they are now open. ( He 
holds an open bag to the King.) 

King (taking out a handful of letters and looking at the 
addresses). — I should indeed like to read the hearts of those 
people. Thus only can I tell the true thoughts of tlu.se 
who bow and simper before my face. I suppose (.7 
glance of suspicion suddenly flashes from Ins eyes.) that you 
have not yourself looked into th< 

LOUVOIS. — Oh, sire, 1 had rather die ! 

Kino. — You swear it? 

LOUVOIS. — As I hope for salvation ! 

KING {selecting one). -Hum ! There i> one among these 
which I see is from your own son. 

Louvois (changing color, and stammering). — Your 



LOUIS XIV. AND HIS MINISTER. 77 

Majesty will find that he is as loyal out of your presence as 
in it, else he is no son of mine. 

King (opening the letter). — Then we shall begin with his. 
Ha ! it is but ten lines long. " Dearest Achille, how I 
long for you to come back ! The court is as dull as a 
cloister, now that you are gone. My ridiculous father still 
struts about like a turkey-cock, as if all his medals and 
crosses could cover the fact that he is but a head lackey, 
with no more real power than I have. He wheedles a good 
deal out of the king, but what he does with it I cannot 
imagine, for little comes my way. I still owe those ten 
thousand livres to the man in the Rue Orfevre. Unless I 
have some luck at lansquenet, I shall have to come out 
soon and join you." Hum ! I did you an injustice, Lou- 
vois. I see that you have not looked over these letters. 

Louvois {with intense agony in his face and protruding 
eyes) . — The viper ! Oh, the foul snake in the grass ! I 
will make him curse the day he was born. 

King. — Tut, tut, Louvois. You are a man who has seen 
much of life, and you should be a philosopher. Hot-headed 
youth says ever more than it means. Think no more of 
the matter. — But what have we here? A letter from my 
dearest girl to her husband, the Prince of Conti. I would 
pick her writing out of a thousand. Ah, dear soul, she 
little thought that my eyes would see her artless prattle ! 
Why should I read it, since I already know every thought 
of her innocent heart? (He unfolds the pink sheet with a 
smile, which fades as he glances down the page. He springs 
to his feet with a snarl of anger.) Minx! Impertinent, 
heartless minx ! Louvois, you know what I have done for 
the princess. You know that she has been the apple of my 
eye. What have I ever grudged her ? What have I ever 
denied her? 



78 LOUIS XIV, AND HIS MINISTER* 

LOUVOIS. — Vou have been goodness itself, sire. 

Kim;. — Hear what slu- says of me: "Old Father Grumpy 

is much as usual, save that he gives a little at the kl 
Vou remember how we used to laugh at his airs andgra 

Well, he has given up all that, ami though he still struts 
about on great high heels, like a Landes peasant on his 
stilts, he has no brightness at all in his clothes. ( )i < i 
all the court follow his example, so you < an imagine what 
a nightmare place this is. Then this woman still keeps in 
favor, antl her frocks are as dismal as Grumpy's i oats ; so 
when you come back we shall go into the country together, 
and you shall dress in red velvet, and I shall wear blue silk, 
and we shall have a little colored court of our own in spite 
of my majestic papa." ( The king Jrops ///<• letter, and 
sinks his face in iiis hands.) Vou hear how she speaks of 
me, Louvois. 

Louvois. — It is infamous, sire ; infamous 1 

Kim;. — She calls me names — n/r, Louvois ! 

Louvois. — Atrocious, sire. 

Kim;. — And my knees ! One would think that I was an 
old man ! 

LOUVOIS. — Scandalous! But, sire, 1 would beg to say 
that it is a case in which your Majesty's philosophy may well 
soften your anger. Youth is ever hot-headed, and 
more than it means. Think no more of this matter. 

King. V<>u speak like a fool, Louvois. The child that 

1 have loved turns upon me, and you ask me to think no 
more of it. Ah, a king can trust hast of all those who 
have his own blood in their veins. — What writing is this? 
(He picks up another letter.) It is the good Cardinal de 
bouillon. This sainted man lows me. I will read vou his 
letter, Louvois, to show vou that there is still such a thing 
as loyalty and gratitude in France. [He reads,) u My 



LOUIS XIV. AND HIS MINISTER. 79 

dear Prince de la Roche-sur-Yon." Ah, it is to him he 
writes. " I promised when you left that I would let you 
know, from time to time how things were going at court, as 
you consulted me about bringing your daughter up from 
Anjou, in the hope that she might catch the king's fancy." 
What! what! Louvois ! What villainy is this? "The 
Sultan goes from bad to worse. The Fontanges was at 
least the prettiest woman in France ; the Montespan was a 
fine woman in her day ; but fancy his picking up now with 
a widow who is older than himself, a woman, too, who does 
not even try to make herself attractive, but kneels at her 
prie-dieu or works at her tapestry from morning to night. 
They say that December and May make a bad match, but 
my own opinion is that two Novembers make an even 
worse one." Louvois ! Louvois ! I can read no more. 
Have you a lettre de cachet? 

Louvois. — There is one here, sire. (He indicates a 
drawer in the table.) 

King. — For the Bastille? 

Louvois. — No ; for Vincennes. 

King. — That will do very well. Fill it up, Louvois ! 
Put this villain's name in it ! Let him be arrested to-night, 
and taken there in his own caleche. The shameless, un- 
grateful, foul-mouthed villain ! — Why did you bring me 
these letters, Louvois? Oh, why did you yield to my foolish 
whim? Mon dieu, is there no truth, or honor, or loyalty 
in the world ? (He stamps with his feet and shakes his 
hands in the air in frenzy?) 

Louvois. — Shall I, then, put back the others? 

King. — Put them back, but keep the bag. 

Louvois. — Both bags? 

King. — Ah ! I had forgot the other one. (Louvois 
leaves the letters he is putting into the first bag and going 



80 l oris xiv. and HIS MINISTER. 

round behind the king empties some of (he letters out of the 
seeond bag on the other side of the table.) Perhaps I have 

at least some honest subjects at a distance. Lei US take 
one hap-hazard. Who is this from? (He opens it) Ah! 
it is from the Due <le la Rochefoucauld. He lias evei 
seemed to be a modest and dutiful young man. What has 
he to say? The Danube— Belgrade — the Grand Vizier — 
Ah ! (He gives a cry as if he had been stabbed.) 

Louvois {stepping forward in alarm). — What, then, sire? 

Kino. —Take them away, Louvois : Take them aw 
I would that I had never seen them ! I will look at them 
no more. He gibes even at my courage, I who was in the 
trenches when he was in his cradle ! "This war would not 
suit the king," he says, "for there are battles, and none of 
the nice little safe sieges which are so dear to him." Par- 
dieu, he shall pay to me with his head for that jest ! Ay, 
Ixnivois, it will be a dear gibe to him. But take them awa) . 
I have seen as much as I can bear. ( The minister thrusts 
the letters back into the bag and puts it one side. Then he 
crosses and begins to return the other letters to the first i 

Louvois (starting as he picks u/> a tetter whose hand- 
writing he recognizes). — Hal it was hardly necessary to 
open this one. 

K, N(; . — Which, Louvois? Whose is it? {Louvois hands 
the letter forward and the king starts as his exes fall on it.) 
Madamc's writing ! 

LOUVOIS. — Yes, it is to her nephew in Germany. (The 
king takes it in his hands, then suddenly throws it d 
hut his hand steals out to it. lie is terribly aeitated. ) 

Kino (fingering nervously the letter and finally tossing it 
to his minister). — Read it to me. 

Louvois (with a malicious light in his eyes t flattening 

the letter and readme). -" My dear nephew, whit you ask 



LOUIS XIV. AND HIS MINISTER. 8 1 

me in your last is absolutely impossible. I have never 
abused the king's favor so far as to ask for any profit for 
myself, and I should be equally sorry to solicit any advance 
for my relatives. No one would rejoice more than I to see 
you rise to be a major in your regiment, but your valor and 
your loyalty must be the cause, and you must not hope to 
do it through any word of mine. To serve such a man as 
the king is its own reward, and I am sure that whether you 
remain a cornet or rise to some higher rank, you will be 
equally zealous in his cause. He is surrounded, unhappily, 
by many base parasites. Some of these are mere fools, like 
Lauzun ; others are knaves, like the late Fouquet ; and 
some seem to be both fools and knaves, like Louvois, the 
Minister of War." {Louvois chokes with rage and cannot 
continue, but sits gurgling and drumming with his fingers on 
the table.) 

King {smiling). — Go on, Louvois, go on. 

Louvois. — " These are the clouds which surround the 
sun, my dear nephew ; but the sun is, believe me, shining 
brightly behind them. For years I have known that noble 
nature as few others can know it, and I can fell you that 
his virtues are his own, but that if ever his glory is for an 
instant dimmed over, it is because his kindness of heart has 
allowed him to be swayed by those who are about him. 
We hope soon to see you back at Versailles, staggering 
under the weight of your laurels. Meanwhile accept my 
love and every wish for your speedy promotion, although it 
cannot be obtained in the way which you suggest." 

King (with love in his eyes) . — Ah, how could I for an 
instant doubt her ! And yet I had been so shaken by the 
others. Francoise is as true as steel. Was it not a beau- 
tiful letter, Louvois? 

Louvois (dubiously). — Madame is a very clever woman. 
6 



8? LOUIS XIV. AND ill- MINISTER. 

King. — And such a reader oi hearts ! Has she not seen 

my character aright? 

Louvois. — At least she has nut read mine, sire. 
A rap at the door an J Bonti MS enters. 

BONTEMS. — The Archbishop has arrived. 

King. — Very well, Bontems. Ask Madame to be so good 
as to step this wav. And order the witnesses to assemble 
in the anteroom. {Bontems hurries away and the King 
funis to Louvois?) I wish you to be one of the witnesses, 
Louvois. 

Louvois. — To what, sire? 

King. — To my marriage. 

Louvois (starting). — What, sire, already? 

KING. — Now, Louvois; within five minutes. 

Louvois {extremely disconcerted) . — V r ery good, sire. 

King. — Put these letters away, Louvois. The last one 
has made up for all the rest. But these rascals shall smart 
for it, all the same. By the way, there is that \< 
nephew to whom madame wrote. Gerard d'Aubigny is his 
name, is it not? 

Louvois. — Yes, sire. 

King. — Make him out a colonel's commission, and give 
him the next vacancy, Louvois. 

LOUVOIS. — A colonel, sire ! Why, he is not ye.t twenty. 

King. — Ay, Louvois. Pray, am I the chief of the army, 
or are you? Take care, Louvois. I have warned you once 
before. I tell you, man, that if I choose to promote one 
of my jack-boots to be the head of a brigade, you shall not 
hesitate to make out the papers. Now go into the ante- 
room, (//(' indicates a >■<><> m on one side of the platform?) 
and wait with the other witnesses until you are wanted. 
( II, s , ^ out on the other side, Louvois takes the /'</. 
letters off to the anteroom?) 



THE CHALLENGE. 



CHARACTERS. 

Bob Acres, a perfect coward, from the country. 

Sir Lucius 0' Trigger, an Irish gentleman with a delicate 
sense of honor. 

Captain Absolute, a friend of Acres, in Bath under the 
name of Ensign Beverley. 

David, an old servant to Acres. 

Another servant. 

Situation. — Sir Lucius plays on the feelings of Bob Acres 
until a challenge is written to Ensign Beverley. Un- 
wittingly Acres gets Captain Absolute to deliver this 
note. The most ludicrous scene is that in the King ' s 
Mead fields , ivhither Sir Lucius has at length dragged 
the unwilling Acres. 

The strength of this dialogue lies in showing the 
sham courage, the i?idomitable cowardice of Acres, and 
the cool carelessness of Sir Lucius. 

Sir Lucius speaks with an Irish brogiie, and David 
has a broad English accent. Considerable ingenuity 
may be displayed in arranging appropriate costumes. 

Scene I. 

lodgings of Bob Acres. A table with writing material 
stands at one side. Enter Acres with a dancing step. 

Acres. — Sink, slide — Confound the first inventors of 

cotillions, say I 

83 



I 111 ^ 11AI I 1 V.I . 

Enter Servant 

Servant. — Here is Sir Lucius O'Trigger to wait on 
you, sir. 

.V RES. — Show him in. {So rant goes out.) 
Enter Sir Lucius O'Trigger. 

Sir LUCIUS. — Mr. Acres, I am delighted to see you. 

ACRES. — My dear Sir Lucius, I kiss your hands. 

Sik LUCIUS. -Pray, my friend, what has brought you so 
suddenly to Bath? 

ACRES. — 'Faith, 1 have followed Cupid's jack-a-lantern, 
and find myself in a quagmire at last ! — In short, I have 
been very ill-used, Sir Lucius. I don't choose to mention 
names, but look on me as a very ill-used gentleman. 

Sir Lucius. — Pray, what is the case? — I ask no names. 

ACRES. — Mark me, Sir Lucius; I fall as deep as need 
be in Love with a young lady — her friends take my part — I 
follow her to Bath — send word of my arrival ; and receive 
answer, that the lady is to be otherwise disposed of. This 
Sir Lucius, I call being ill-used. 

SrR Lrciis. — Very ill, upon my conscience ! — Pray, can 
you divine the cause of it? 

ACRES. — Why, there's the matter: she lias another lover, 
one Beverley, who, I am told, is now in bath. — Odds, slanders 
and lies ! he must be at the bottom of it. 

Sir Lucius. — A rival in the case, is there? and you 

think he has supplanted you unfairly? 
Acres. — Unfairly! to be sure he has. He never could 

have done it fairly. 

SlR Lions. — Then sure you know what is to be done. 

Not I, upon my soul ! 
Sir LUCIUS.— We wear no swords here, but you under- 
stand me ? 

Acres.— What I fight him? 



THE CHALLENGE. 85 

Sir Lucius. — Ay, to be sure : what can I mean else ? 

Acres. — But he has given me no provocation. 

Sir Lucius. — Now, I think he has given you the greatest 
provocation in the world. Can a man commit a more 
heinous offence against another, than to fall in love with 
the same woman ? Oh, by my soul, it is the most unpar- 
donable breach of friendship. 

Acres. — Breach of friendship ! Ay, ay ; but I have no 
acquaintance with this man. I never saw him in my life. 

Sir Lucius. — That's no argument at all — he has the less 
right, then, to take such a liberty. 

Acres. — 'Gad, that's true — I grow full of anger, Sir Lu- 
cius ! — I fire apace ; odds hilts and blades ! I find a man 
may have a deal of valor in him, and not know it. — But 
couldn't I contrive to have a little right on my side? 

Sir Lucius. — What the devil signifies right when your 
honor is concerned? Do you think Achilles, or my little 
Alexander the Great, ever inquired where the right lay? 
No, by my soul, they drew their broad sword, and left the 
lazy sons of peace to settle the justice of it. 

Acres. — Your words are a grenadier's march to my 
heart ! I believe courage must be catching. — I certainly do 
feel a kind of valor arising, as it were — a kind of courage, 
as I may say. — Odds flints, pans, and triggers ! I'll challenge 
him directly. 

Sir Lucius. — Ah, my little friend ! If we had Blunder- 
buss Hall here — I could show you a range of ancestry, 
in the O'Trigger line, every one of whom had killed his 
man ! — For though the mansion-house and dirty acres have 
slipped through my fingers, I thank heaven, our honor and 
the family pictures are as fresh as ever. 

Acres. — Oh, Sir Lucius, I have had ancestors too ! — every 
man of them colonel or captain in the militia ! — odds balls 



86 IHI ( HAl I I NGE. 

and barrels '. say no more— I'm braced for it. The thunder 
of your words has soured the milk of human kindness in 
my breast I— Zounds ! as the man in the play says, ' 1 

could do such deeds' 

Sir Lucius.— Come, come, there must be no passion at 
all in the case — these things should always be done civilly. 

Acres.— I must be in a passion, Sir Lucius— 1 must be in 
a rage — Dear Sir Lucius, let me be in a rage, if you love 
me .— Come, here's pen and paper. (Sits.) I would the 
ink were red ! — Indite, I say, indite !— How shall 1 begin? 
Odds bullets and blades ! I'll write a good bold hand how- 
ever. 

Sir Lucius. — Pray, compose yourself. (Sits down.) 

Acres. — Come — now, shall I begin with an oath? Do, 
Sir Lucius, let me begin with a damme. 

Sir Lucius.— Pho! pho ! do the thing decently, and like 
a Christian. Begin now—" Sir, " 

Acres. — That's too civil, by hall. 

Sir Lucius. — " To prevent the confusion that might 
arise " 

Acres. — Well 



Sir Lucius. — " From our both addressing the same 

lady " 

Acres.— Ay— "both undressing the same lady"— th< 

the reason — "same lady " — Well 

Sir Lucius.—" I shall expect the honor of your com- 



pany " 

Acres.— -Zounds ! I'm not asking him to dinner ! 

Sir Lucius.— Pray, be easy. 

Acres.— Well, then, "honor of your company "—Does 

company begin with a C or a k ? 

SlR fjuciUB. — "To settle our pretensions " 

Acres — Well. 



THE CHALLENGE. 87 

Sir Lucius. — Let me see — ay, King's Mead fields will do 
— "in King's Mead fields." 

Acres. — So, that's done — Well, I'll fold it up presently, 
my own crest, a hand and dagger, shall be the seal. 

Sir Lucius. — You see, now, this little explanation will put 
a stop at once to all confusion or misunderstanding that 
might arise between you. 

Acres. — Ay, we fight to prevent any misunderstanding. 

Sir Lucius. — Now, I'll leave you to fix your own time. 
Take my advice, and you'll decide it this evening, if you 
can; then, let the worst come of it, 'twill be off your mind 
to-morrow. 

Acres. — Very true. 

Sir Lucius. — So I shall see nothing more of you, unless 
it be by letter, till the evening. (He goes out.) 

Acres (with a shake of his head). — By my valor, I should 
like to see him fight. Odds life, I should like to see him 
kill a man, if it was only to get a little lesson ! (He goes 
out.) 

Scene II 
The same room. Enter Acres, disconsolately, pursued by 
David. Acres sits by the table. 

David. — Then, by the mass, sir, I would do no such 
thing ! Ne'er a Sir Lucius O'Triggerin the kingdom should 
make me fight, when I wasn't so minded. Oons ! what 
will the old lady say, when she hears o't? 

Acres. — But my honor, David, my honor ! I must be 
very careful of my honor. 

David. — Ay, by the mass, and I would be very careful of 
it, and I think in return, my honor could not do less than 
to be very careful of me. 

Acres. — Odds blades! David, no gentleman will ever 
risk the loss of his honor. 



1111 i II \l I I \ 

David. — I say, then, it would be but civil in hoi 
to risk the loss of a gentleman. Look ye, master, this 
honor seems to me to be a marvelous false friend. Put the 
le g ntleman, (which, thank heaven, no one 
can say of me;) well— my honor makes me quarrel with 
another gentleman of my acquaintance. So, we 
(Pleasant enough that) Boh! 1 kill him — (the a 
my luck.) Now. pray, who gets the profit of it? Why, 
my honor. But put the case, that he kills me ! By the 
mass! I go to the worms, and my honor whips over to my 
enemy. 

ACRES. -No, Davidj in that case, odds (-owns and 
laurels ! your honor follows you to the g] 

DAVID. — Now, that's just the place where I could make 
a shift to do without it. 

V RES. — Zounds ! David, you are a coward ! It d< i 
become my valor to listen to you. What, shall I disg 
my ancestors? Think of that, David — think what it would 
be to disgrace my ancestors! 

DAVID. Under favor, the surest way of not disgracing 
them, is to keep as long as you can out of their company. 
J.ook ye, now, master; to go to them in such haste — with 
an ounce of lead in your brains — I should think it might as 
well be let alone. Our ancestors are very good kind of 
folks; but they are the last people 1 should choose to ha\e 
a visiting acquaintance with. 

A< RES. But, David, now, you don't think there is such 
very — very great danger, hey? odds life! people often 
fight without any mischief done. 

David.— By the mass, 1 think 'tis ten to one against you ' 

Oons ! here to meet some lion headed fellow, 1 warrant, 

with his villainous double-barreled and cut-and- 

thrust pistols'. Lord bless US ! it makes me trembll 



THE CHALLENGE. 89 

think on't — those be such desperate, bloody-minded 
weapons ! Well, I never could abide them ! from a child 
I never could fancy them. I suppose there ain't been so 
merciless a beast in the world as your loaded pistol ! 

Acres. — Zounds ! I won't be afraid ! Odds fire and 
fury ! you shan't make me afraid. Here is the challenge, 
and I have sent for my dear friend, Jack Absolute, to carry 
it for me. 

David. — Ay, in the name of mischief, let him be the mes- 
senger. For my part, I wouldn't lend a hand to it, for the 
best horse in your stable. By the mass, it don't look like 
another letter ! It is, as I may say, a designing and mali- 
cious-looking letter, and I warrant smells of gunpowder, 
like a soldier's pouch. Oons ! I wouldn't swear it mayn't 
go off. 

Acres. — Out, you poltroon ! — you haven't the valor of a 
grasshopper. 

David. — Well, I say no more : 'twill be sad news, to be 
sure, at Clod Hall, but I ha' done. How Phyllis will howl 
when she hears of it ! Ay, poor dog, she little thinks what 
shooting her master's going after ! And I warrant old Crop, 
who has carried your honor, field and road, these ten years, 
will curse the hour he was born. (Whimpering^) 

Acres. — It won't do, David — I am determined to fight, 
so get along, you coward, while I'm in the mind. 

Enter Servant. 

Servant. — Captain Absolute, sir. 
Acres. — Oh, show him up. (Servant goes out) 
David. — Well, heaven send we be all alive this time to 
morrow. 

Acres. — What's that? Don't provoke me, David ! 
David.— Good-by, master. (Sobbing.) 



(JO Nil I II Ml I V.l • 

Acres. — (iet along, you cowardly, dastardly, croaking 
raven ! (David goes out.) 

En ti>- Captain Absoi ute. 

Captain Absolute. — What's the matter, Bob? 

Acres. — A vile, sheep-hearted blockhead ! — It I hadn't 

the valor of St. George, and the dragon to boot 

Captain Absolute. — But what did you want with me, 
Hob? 

Acres. — Oh ! — there — ( Gives him the challen± \ 

Captain Absolute (reads). — "To Ensign Beverley." — 
(Aside). So — what's going on now? — (Aloud.) Well, 
what's this? 

Acres. — A challenge. 

Captain Absolute. — Indeed! — Why, you won't fight 
him, will you, Bob? 

Acres.— Egad, but I will, Jack.— Sir Lucius has wrought 
me to it. He has left me full of rage, and I'll fight this 
evening that so much good passion mayn't be wasted. 

Captain Absolute. — But what have I to do with this? 

Acres. — Why, as I think you know something of this 
fellow, I want you to find him out for me, and give him 
this mortal defiance. 

Captain Absolute.— Well, give it me, and trust me he 
gets it. 

Acres. — Thank you, my dear friend, my dear Jack ; but 
it is giving you a great thai of trouble. 

Captain Absolute. Not in the least- 1 beg you won't 

mention it. No trouble in the world, I assure you. 

A' ii 5. You are very kind.— What it is to have a friend '. 
— you couldn't be mv second — could you, Jack? 

Captain Absou m. Why, no, Bob— not in this affair it 

would not be quite SO proper. 



THE CHALLENGE. 



91 



Acres.- — Well, then, I must get my friend, Sir Lucius. I 
shall have your good wishes, however, Jack? 

Captain Absolute. — Whenever he meets you, believe me. 
Enter Servant. 

Servant. — Sir Anthony Absolute is below, inquiring for 
the captain. 

Captain Absolute.— I'll come down instantly. {Ser- 
vant goes out.) Well, my little hero, success attend you. 
{Going.) 

Acres. — Stay, stay, Jack. — If Beverley should ask you 
what kind of a man your friend Acres is, do tell him I am 
a devil of a fellow — will you, Jack? 

Captain Absolute. — To be sure, I shall. I'll say you 
are a determined dog — hey, Bob? 

Acres. — Ay, do, do — and if that frightens him, egad, 
perhaps he mayn't come. So tell him I generally kill a 
man a week ; will you, Jack ? 

Captain Absolute. — I will ; I will ; I'll say you are called, 
in the country, " Fighting Bob." 

Acres. — Right, right — 'tis all to prevent mischief ; for I 
don't want to take his life, if I clear my honor. 

Captain Absolute. — No ! — that's very kind of you. 

Acres. — Why, you don't wish me to kill him, do you, 
Jack? 

Captain Absolute. — No, upon my soul, I do not. But 
a devil of a fellow, hey? (Going.) 

Acres. — True, true. — But stay, — stay, Jack — you may 
add that you never saw me in such a rage before — a most 
devouring rage. 

Captain Absolute. — I will, I will. 

Acres. — Remember, Jack — a determined dog ! 

Captain Absolute. — Ay, ay, "Fighting Bob." (He goes 
out. 



92 1HK ( 11A1 I I \i,i . 

Acres {shaking his head and gritting his teeth), — Oh, 

yes ! a determined dog ! ( //, %oei out on other tide,) 

Scene III. 

Kings Mead Fit Us. Enter Sir Lucius and Vcres, with 

pistols. 

ACRES. — By my valor, then, Sir Lucius, forty yards is a 
good distance. Odds levels and aims ! 1 say it is a good 
distance. 

Sir Lucius. — It is for muskets or small field-pieces ; upon 
my conscience, Mr. Acres, you must leave these thing 
me. Stay, now, I'll show you. {Measures paces along the 
stage.) There, now, that is a very pretty distance — a pretty 
gentleman's distance. 

Acres. — Zounds ! we might as well fight in a sentry-box ! 
I tell you, Sir Lucius, the farther he is off the cooler I shall 
take my aim. 

Sir Lucius. — Faith, then, I suppose you would aim at 
him best of all if he was out of sight ! 

ACRES. — No, Sir Lucius, but I should think forty, or 
eight and thirty yards 

Sir Lucius. — Pho! pho ! nonsense! three or four feel 
between the mouths of your pistols is as good as a mile. 

Acres.— Odds bullets, no! by my valor, there is no 
merit in killing him so near ! Do, my dear Sir Lucius, let 
me bring him down at a long shot ; a long shot. Sir Lucius, 
if you love me. 

Sii< I i en s. — Well, the gentleman's friend and 1 must 
settle that. But tell me, now, Mr. Acres, in case of an 
accident, is there any little will or commission I could 
execute for you? 

ACRES.— 1 am much obliged to you, Sir Lucius, but 1 
don't understand 



THE CHALLENGE. 93 

Sir Lucius. — Why, you may think there's no being shot 
at without a little risk — and, if an unlucky bullet should 
carry a quietus with it — I say, it will be no time then to be 
bothering you about family matters. 

Acres. — A quietus ! 

Sir Lucius. — For instance, now, if that should be the 
case — would you choose to be pickled, and sent home ? — or 
would it be the same to you to lie here in the Abbey? — 
I'm told there is very snug lying in the Abbey. 

Acres. — Pickled ! — Snug lying in the Abbey ! — Odds 
tremors ! Sir Lucius, don't talk so ! 

Sir Lucius. — I suppose, Mr. Acres, you never were en- 
gaged in an affair of this kind before. 

Acres. — No, Sir Lucius, never before. 

Sir Lucius. — Ah, that's a pity — there's nothing like being 
used to a thing. Pray, now, how would you receive the 
gentleman's shot? 

Acres. — Odds files ! I've practised that — there, Sir 
Lucius, there ! {He puts himself into a very awkward atti- 
tude.) A side-front, eh? — Odd, I'll make myself small 
enough — I'll stand edgeways. 

Sir Lucius. — Now, you're quite out — for if you stand so 
when I take my aim — {He levels his pistol at him.) 

Acres. — Zounds, Sir Lucius ! are you sure it is not 
cocked ? 

Sir Lucius. — Never fear. 

Acres (shivering) . — But — but — you don't know — it may 
go off of its own head ! 

Sir Lucius (speaks in a very easy, careless tone). — 
Pho ! be easy. Well, now, if I hit you in the body, my 
bullet has a double chance ; for if it misses a vital part on 
your right side, 'twill be very hard if it don't succeed on 
the left. 



94 THE < HALL] MGE. 

Acres. — A vital part ! 

Sir Lucius {crosses to him).—hvA there — fix yourself 

so — {He places him.) Let him see the broadside of voui 
full front — there — now, a ball or two may pass clean through 
your body, and never do you any harm at all. 

Acrks {shrinking away). — Clean through me ! A ball or 
two clean through me ! 

Sir LUCIUS. — Ay, may they — and it is much the genteel- 
est attitude into the bargain. 

ACRES. — Look ye, Sir Lucius — I'd just as lieve be shot 
in an awkward posture as a genteel one — so, by my valor ! 
I will stand edgeways. 

Sir Lucius {lookingat his watch). — Sure they don't mean 
to disappoint us — ah ! no, faith — I think I see them coming. 

Acres. — Hey ! — what ! — coming? 

Sir Lucius. — Ay, who are those yonder, getting over the 
stile? 

Acres. — There are two of them, indeed '.—well, let them 
come — hey, Sir Lucius ! — we-we-we-we — won't run. 

Sir Lucius. — Run ! 

Acres. — No, I say — we won't run, by my valor ! 

Sir LUCIUS. — What the devil's the matter with you? 

Acres. — Nothing, nothing, my dear friend my dear Sir 
Lucius — but I — I — I don't feel quite so bold, somehow, as 
I did. 

Sir LUCIUS. — Oh, fie ! consider your honor. 

ACRES. — Ay, true, my honor — do, Sir Lucius, edge in a 
word or two, every now and then, about my honor. 

Sir LUCIUS. — Well, here they're coming. {Looking,) 

A< RES. Sir Lucius, if I wasn't with you, I should almost 
think I was afraid — it my valor should leave me 1 valoi 
come and go. 

Sir Lu< ii S. Then, pray, keep it fast while you have it. 



THE CHALLENGE. 95 

Acres.— Sir Lucius — I doubt it is going — yes, my valor 
is certainly going ! it is sneaking off ! — I feel it oozing out, 
as it were, at the palms of my hands ! 

Sir Lucius. — Your honor — your honor ! — Here they are. 

Acres. — Oh, that I was safe at Clod Hall ! or could be 
shot before I was aware ! 

Enter Faulkland and Captain Absolute. 

Sir Lucius. — Gentlemen, your most obedient — hah ! — 
what, Captain Absolute ! So, I suppose, sir, you are come 
here, just like myself — to do a kind office, first for your 
friend — then to proceed to business on your own account? 

Acres. — What, Jack ! — my dear Jack ! — my dear friend ! 

Captain Absolute. — Harkye, Bob, Beverley's at hand. 

Sir Lucius. — Well, Mr. Acres — I don't blame you salut- 
ing the gentleman civilly. So, Mr. Beverley (To Faulk- 
land,*) if you choose your weapons, the captain and I will 
measure the ground. 

Faulkland. — My weapons, sir ! 

Acres. — Odds life ! Sir Lucius, I'm not going to fight 
Mr. Faulkland ; these are my particular friends ! 

Sir Lucius. — What, sir, did not you come here to fight 
Mr. Acres? 

Faulkland. — Not I, upon my word, sir ! 

Sir Lucius. — Well, now, that's mighty provoking ! But 
I hope, Mr. Faulkland, as there are three of us come on 
purpose for the game —you won't be so cantankerous as to 
spoil the party, by sitting out. 

Captain Absolute. — Oh, pray, Faulkland, fight to oblige 
Sir Lucius. 

Faulkland. — Nay, if Mr. Acres is so bent on the 
matter 

Acres. — No, no, Mr. Faulkland — I'll bear my disappoint- 
ment like a Christian. — Lookye, Sir Lucius, there's no 



()G i HE CHALLENUl . 

occasion at all for me to fight; and if it is the same to you, 
I'd as lieve let it alone. 

Sir I. i i [us. —Observe me, Mr. Acres — I must not be trilled 
with ! You have certainly challenged somebody, and jrou 
came here to light him. Now, if that gentleman is willing 
to represent him — I can't see, for my soul, why it isn't just 
the same thing. 

Acres. Why, no, Sir Lucius; I tell you, 'tis one Bever 
ley I've challenged — a fellow, you see, that dare not show 
his face. If he were here, I'd make him give up his pre- 
tensions directly. 

Captain ABSOLUTE. — Hold, Bob— let me set you right — 
there is no such man as Beverley in the case. The person 
who assumed that name is before you; and as his preten- 
sions are the same in both characters, he is ready to sup- 
port them in whatever way you please. 

Sir Lucius. — Well, this is lucky. Now you have an op- 
portunity 

ACRES. — What, quarrel with my dear friend, Jack Abso- 
lute ! — not if he were fifty Beverleys ! Zounds ! Sir Lucius, 
you would not have me so unnatural ! 

Sir LUCIUS.— Upon my conscience, Mr. Acres, your valor 
has oozed away with a vengeance ! 

ACRES.— Not in the least ! odds backs and abettors I I'll 
be your second with all my heart — and if you should gel a 
quietus, you may command me entirely. I'll get you snug 
Kin-- in the Abbey here ; or pickle you, and send you over 
to Blunderbuss Hall, or anything of the kind, with the great- 
est pleasure. 

Sir LuCTUS.— Pho I pho ! you are little better than a 
< oward. 

Acres. — Mind, gentlemen, he calls me a coward; coward 
wa- the word, by my valor ! 



THE CHALLENGE. 97 

Sir Lucius.— Well, sir? 

Acres. — Lookye, Sir Lucius, 'tisn't that I mind the word 
coward — Coward may be said in a joke — But if you had 
called me a poltroon, odds daggers and balls ! 

Sir Lucius. — Well, sir? 

Acres. — I should have thought you a very ill-bred man, 
but if ever I give you a chance of pickling me again, say 
Bob Acres is a dunce, that's all. (He goes out. The others 
salute each other and file off.) 



THE HOMELESS OLD MAN 

Adapted from " The Bondman," by Hall Caine. 



CHARACTERS. 

Adam Fairbroth a benevolent old man. 

Asher, Ross, Thurstan, Jacob, John, his sons,— farmers. 

Chaise A'Killey, old faithful servant to Adam. 

Ruth Fairbrother, miserly, unaffectionatt wife of Adam. 

Greeba Fairbrother, beautiful, loving daughter to Adam. 

Situation. — The scene is laid in the Isle of Man. Adam 
Fairbrother has just been superseded in the governor- 
generalship of the isle. His generosity while in office 
has left him penniless. Even his ancestral home he 
has given by deed to his miserly wife, who lives on 
the estate with the sons, lazy, worthless fellows. A 
stranger, MlCHAEL SUNLOCKS, has taken the sons' place 
in the father 's heart, and he has also icon the affections 
of Greeba, and now seeks his fortune in Iceland. In 
Sunlock's absence, Jason OrrV lays unsuccessful siege 
to her heart. Adam, in his penury, returns to his old 
home for protection but meets with the following recep- 
tion. 

Mrs. Fairbrother is sitting on one side of the platform 
front, knitting. Enter behind her Adam, who takes a 

seat by the fireplace opposite; ('.kit. ha follows and 
stands back of his chair; CHALSE shambles into the 
rear, scratching vacantly his uncovered head. 

9? 



THE HOMELESS OLD MAN. 



99 



Mrs. Fairbrother {drawing herself up and holding back 
her skirts). — And pray, what ill wind blows you here ? 

Adam. — An ill wind indeed, Ruth, for it is the wind of 
adversity. You must have heard of our misfortune, since 
the whole island knows of it. Well, it is not for me to 
complain, for God shapes our ways and He knows what is 
best. But I am an old man now, Ruth, little able to look 
to myself, still less to another, and 

Mrs. Fairbrother {tapping with her foot on the floor). — 
Cut it short, sir. What do you want? 

Adam {with stupefied look but quietly). — I want to come 
home, Ruth. 

Mrs. Fairbrother {sharply) . — Home ! And what home, 
if you please ? 

Adam {with a momentary struggle) . — What home, Ruth? 
Why, what home but this ? 

Mrs. Fairbrother. — This indeed ! This is not your 
home. 

Adam {dropping back into his seat, dumfounded) . — Not 
my home ! {Suddenly bracing up.) Not my home ! Did 
you say this was not my home? Why, woman, I was born 
here ; so was my father before me, and my father's father 
before him. Five generations of my people have lived and 
died here, and the very roof rafters over your head must 
know us. 

Mrs. Fairbrother.— Hoity-toity ! and if you had lived 
here much longer not a rafter of them all would have been 
left to shelter us. No, sir. I've kept the roof on this 
house, and it is mine. 

Adam {slowly). — It is yours, indeed, for I gave it you. 

Mrs. Fairbrother. — You gave it me ! Say I took it 
as my right when all that you had was slipping through your 
fingers like sand, as everything does that ever touches them. 



[OO THE HOM1 LESS ( »LD MAN. 

Adam [drawing himself up with dignity). — There is one 
thing that has indeed slipped through my fingers like sand, 

and that is the fidelity of the woman who swore before Cod 
forty and odd years ago to love and honor me. 

Mrs. FAIRBROTHER, — Crinkleum-crankum ! A pretty 

thing, truly, that I should toil and moil at my age to keep 
house and home together, ready and waiting for you, when 
your zany doings have shut every other door against you. 
Misfortunes, indeed ! A fine name for your mistakes ! 

Adam. — i may have made mistakes, madam, but true it 
is, as the wise man has said, that he who has never made 
mistakes has never made anything. 

Mrs. FAIRBROTHER. — Tush ! 

Adam. — Ruth, do you refuse to take me in? 

Mrs. FAIRBROTHER.— This house is mine, mine by law 
and deed, as tight as wax can make it. 

Adam (rising to his feet). -Do you refuse to take me in? 

Mrs. FAIRBROTHER. — You have brought ruin on yourself 
by your shilly-shally and vain folly, and now you think to 
pat your nose and say your prayers by my fireside. 

ADAM.— Ruth, do you refuse to take me in? 

Mrs. FAIRBROTHER.— Yes, and that 1 do. You would 
beggar me as you have beggared yourself, but that I warrant 
you never shall. ( Grim silence for a moment.) 

Adam (gripping his staff convulsively). — God give me 
patience. Yes, Til bear it meekly. Ruth, I'll not trouble 
you. Make yourself sure of that. While there's a horse- 
wallet to hang on my old shoulders, and a bit of barley- 
bread to put in it. I'll rove the country round, but 1*11 never 
come on my knees to you and say, " 1 am your husband. 1 
gave you all you had, and you are rich and I'm a beggar, 
and I am old— give me for charity mv bed and board." — 
(He -ires wax to wrath ) Out on you, woman! Out on 



THE HOMELESS OLD MAN. IOI 

you ! God forgive me the evil day I set eyes on you ! 
God forgive me the damned day I took you to my breast 
to rend it ! 

Greeba {she has silently watched with quivering eyelashes 
and clenched fingers, and now steps forward}. — Forgive him, 
mother. Do not be angry with him. He will be sorry foi 
what he has said ; I'm sure he will. But only think, deai 
mother ; he is in great, great trouble, and he is past work, 
and if this is not his home, then he is homeless. 

Adam {dropping back into his chair and weeping). — I am 
not ashamed of my tears, child, but they are not shed for 
myself. Nor did I come here for my own sake, though 
your mother thinks I did. No, child, no ; say no more. 
I'll repent me of nothing I have said to her — no, not a 
word. She is a hard, cruel woman ; but, thank" heaven, I 
have my sons left to me yet. She is not flesh of my flesh, 
though one with me in wedlock ; but they are, and they 
will never see their father turned from the door. 

Enter three sons, Asher, Ross, and Thurstan. 

This is not your will, Asher ? 

Asher. — I do not know what you mean, sir. 

Mrs. Fairbrother {her apron to her eyes}. — He has 
damned your mother and cursed the day he married her. 

Adam. — But she is turning me out of the house. This 
house — my father's house. 

Asher. — Ask her pardon, sir, and she will take you back. 

Adam. — Her pardon ! God in heaven ! 

Thurstan. — You are an old man, now, sir. 

Adam. — So I am ; so I am. 

Thurstan. — And you are poor as well. 

Adam. — That's true, Thurstan ; that's true, though your 
brother forgets it. 



102 THE HOMELESS OLD MAN. 

Thurstan. — So you should not hold your head too high. 

Adam. — What ! Are you on her side, also? Asher, 
Thurstan, Ross, you are my sons — would you see me turned 
DUt of the house? 

Ashkr (all three hang their heads). — What mother 
he must agree to. 

Adam. — But I gave you all I had. If I am old I am 
your father, and if I am poor you know best who made me 
so. 

Thurstan. — We are poor, too, sir ; we have nothing, and 
we do not forget who is to blame for it. 

Ross. — You gave everything away from us; and because 
your bargain is a rue bargain, you want us now to stand 
aback of you. 

Enter Jacob and John. 

Jacob (sneeringly). — Ah, yes, and who took the side of 
a stranger against his own children? What of your ^nn\ 
Michael Sunlocks, now, sir? Is he longing lor you? Or 
have you never had the scribe of a line from him since he 
turned his back on you, four years ago ? 

Greeba (angrily, with flashing eves). — For shame, for 
shame! Oh, ygu mean, pitiful men, to bait and badger 
him like this. (Jacob laughs.) 

Mrs. Fatrbrother. — Chut, girl, you're waxing apace with 
your big words, considering you're a chit that has wasted 
her days in London and hasn't learned to muck a byre yet. 

Adam (stunned).- Not for myself, no, not for myself, 
though they all think it. ( To his sons.) You think I emu- 
to beg for bed and board for myself, you are wrong. I 
came to demand it for the girl. I may have no claim upon 
you, but she has, for she is one with you all and can ask 
for her own. She has no home with her father now. for it 



THE HOMELESS OLD MAN. IO3 

seems that he has none for himself ; but her home is here, 
and here I mean to leave her. 

John. — Not so fast, sir. All she can ever claim is what 
may one day be hers when we ourselves come into any- 
thing. Meantime, like her brothers, she has nothing but 
what she works for. 

Adam. — Works for, you wagtail ? She is a woman ! Do 
you hear? A woman ! 

John {snapping his fingers} . — Woman or man, where's 
the difference here? 

Adam. — Where's the difference, you jackanapes? Do 
you ask me where's the difference here ? Here ? In grace, 
in charity, in unselfishness, in faith in the good, in fidelity 
to the true, in filial love and duty ! There's the difference, 
you jackanapes. 

John. — You are too old to quarrel with, sir. I will spare 
you. 

Adam. — Spare me, you whippersnapper ! You will spare 
me / But, oh, let me have patience ! If I have cursed 
the day I first saw my wife, let me not also curse the hour 
when she first bore children, and my heart was glad. Asher, 
you are my first-born, and heaven knows what you were to 
me. You will not stand by and listen to this. She is your 
sister, my son. Think of it, — your only sister. 

Asher {indifferently). — The girl is nothing to me. She 
is nothing to any of us. She has been with you all the 
days of her life, except such as you made her to spend with 
strangers. She is no sister of ours. 

Adam {to Ross). — And do you say the same? 

Ross. — What can she do here? Nothing. This is no 
place for your great ladies. We work here, every man and 
woman of us, from daylight to dark, in the fields and in the 
dairy. Best send her back to her fine friends in London. 



104 THE HOMELESS OLD MAX. 

Jacob {smiling into Greeba's face), — Ay, or marry her 
straight off — that is the shortest way. I heard a little bird 
tell of some one who might have her. Don't look astonished, 
Miss, lor I make no doubt you know who it is. He 18 away 
on the mountains now, but he'll be home before long. 

Adam (struggling with his emotion) . — If she is not your 
sister, at least she is your mother's daughter, and a mother 
knows what that means. (//<* turns to Mrs. fairbrother,) 
Ruth, the child is your daughter, and by that deed you 
speak of, she is entitled to her share of all that is here 

Mrs. Fairbrother {sharply). — Yes, but only when I am 
done with it. 

ADAM. — Even so, would you see the child want before 
that, or drive her into any marriage, no matter what? 

Mrs. Fairbrother {deliberately) —I will take her on one 
condition. 

Adam. —What is it, Ruth? Name it, that I may grant it. 

Mrs. Fairbrother. — That you shall give up all control 
of her, and that she shall give up all thought of you. 

Adam.— What? 

Mrs. Fairbrother. — That you shall never again expect 
to see her or hear from her, or hold commerce of any kind 
with her. 

Adam. — lint why? Why? 

Mrs. FAIRBROTHER. — Because I may have certain plans 
for her future welfare that you might try to spoil. 

Adam. — Do they concern Michael Sunlocks? 

Mrs. Fairbrother.— No, indeed. 

Adam. — Then, they concern young Jason, the Icelander. 

Mrs. Fairbrother. — It so. it is my concernment. 

Adam. — And that is your condition? 

Mrs. Fairbrother. — Yes. 

Adam. Vndyouask me to part from her, forever? Think 



THE HOMELESS OLD MAN. IO5 

of it, she is my only daughter. She has been the light of 
my eyes. You have never loved her as I have loved her. 
You know it is the truth. And you ask me to see her no 
more, and never more to hear from her. Now, God punish 
you for this, you cold-hearted woman ! 
' Mrs. Fairbrother. — Take care, sir. Fewer words, or 
mayhap I will recall my offer. If you are wise you will be 
calm for the girl's sake. 

Adam {dropping his head). — You are right. It is not for 
me to take the bread out of my child's mouth. She shall 
choose for herself. (He twists round in his chair and looks 
np at her.) Greeba, my darling, you see how it is. I am 
old and very poor, and heaven pity my blind folly. I have 
no home to offer you, for I have none to shelter my own 
head. Don't fear for me, for I have no fear for myself. I 
will be looked to in the few days that remain to me and 
come what may, the sorry race of my foolish life will soon 
be over. But you have made no mistakes that merit my 
misfortunes. So choose, my child, choose. It is poverty 
with me or plenty with your mother. Choose, my child, 
choose ; and let it be quickly, let it be quickly, for my old 
heart is bursting. 

Greeba (drawing herself np proudly) . — Choose ? There 
is no choice. I will go with my father, and follow him 
over the world, though we have no covering but the skies 
above us. 

Adam (leaping from his chair in joy) . — Do you hear that, 
you people? There's grace and charity, and unselfishness, 
and love left in the world still. Thank heaven, I have not 
yet to curse the day her body brought forth children. 
Come, Greeba, we will go our ways, and God's protection 
will go with us. " I have been young and now am old, yet 
have I not seen the righteous forsaken, nor his seed begging 



Io6 l HI ll< >MI LESS OLD MAN. 

bread." (He strides across tin- platform to the door he en- 
tered, stops and looks back at the group of his sons. | And 
you, you unnatural sons, I cast you out of my mind, [give 

you up to your laziness and drunkenness and vain pleasures. 
I am going to one who is not flesh of my flesh, and yet he 
is my son indeed. (J/e starts out, but again turns ami 
fa cos his wife.) As for you, woman, your time will come. 
Remember that ! Remember that ! 

Greeba (laying a hand on his shoulder). — Come, father, 
come. 

Adam (again turning back) . — Farewell, all of you ! Fare- 
well ! You will see me no more. May a day like this that 
has come to your father never, never come to you. ( //< 
breaks down, reels, and Greeba helps him out, while he sobs 
out the following apostrophe.) Sunlocks, my boy : Sun- 
locks, I am coming to you — I am coming to you. {He 
goes out with Greeba.) 

Chai.se (muttering). — Strange, the near I was to crucify- 
ing the Lord afresh and swearing a mortal swear, only I 
remembered my catechism and the good John Wesley. 
(He goes out.) 

CURTAIN. 



THE WITCH OF VESUVIUS. 



Adapted from " The Last Days of Pompeii/' by Bulwer Lytton, 



CHARACTERS. 

Grlaucus, a handsome, graceful and rich Greek. 

lone, a brilliant and beautiful young woman, born in 
Naples of Greek parents. 

The Witch, an old wrinkled, weather-beaten hag, bent and 
lame. 

Situation. — Glaucus has taken Ione on a little journey and 
oil the return they are overtaken by a violent storm not 
far from the Witch's cavern. They hurry into this 
gloomy place, where the Witch questions them and 
curses them. 

On one side is a fire with a small cauldron over it. 
Herbs and weeds are hung in lines to dry. The fire 
gives a weird light on the face of the hag. The?-e is a 
fox couching by the fire, and a heap of sculls of animals 
in the corner. 

Glaucus and Ione must enter in garments spatte?-ed 
with rain and mud. The snake need not be real or 
apparent. It will be sufficient for all three actors to 
imagine it present. 

The Witch is seated before the fire with dried weeds heaped 
at her feet. She sorts weeds and stirs the cauldro?i. 

Witch. — Years ago I was not the thing that I am now. 

107 



mi. win 11 01 \ ESI \ LUS. 

I loved ami 1 fended I was beloved. Another and less 
fair than I -yes, by Nemesis'. less fair— allured mv chosen 
from me. We vail in my dark Etrurian tribe knew the 
secrets of the glbomier Magic My mother, too, .she n 
Sa.ua. O mother, you shared the resentment of thy child. 
You, even you, gave me the poison that was to destroy my 
rival. Oh, crush me, dread walls, that my trembling hands 
should mistake the phials and I should see my lover indeed 
at my feet, but dead! dead'. — What has life been to me 
since? How suddenly I became oljl' How long I have 
given myself to these sorceries of my race ! Still by an ir- 
resistible impulse I curse myself; still 1 seek the most 
noxious herbs; still I concoct poisons \ still I imagine that 
I am to give them to my hated rival ; still I pour them into 
the phial; still 1 fancy that they shall blast her beauty to 
the dust ; still I wake and see the quivering body, the foam- 
ing lips, the glazing eyes of my Aulus,— murdered, and by 
me ! {S//c shudders and shakes from head to foot and then 
she sits very still.) 

Enter GiAUCUS and I< >ne. They stand by the door. 
GLAUCUS. — Tt is a dead thing. 
[one {/altering and clinging to him).— Nay it stirs, — 

it is a ghost or 

Witch (in a hollow and ghostly tone).-- Who are ye? 
And what do ye here? 

Glaucus (drawing /one farther into caverri). — We are 
Storm-beaten wanderers from the neighboring city, and de- 
coyed hither by your light ; we crave shelter and the com- 
fort of your hearth. 

WITCH.— Come to the lire if ye will. 1 never welcome 
living thing, save the owl, the Eox, the toad and th« viper, 90 

1 cannot welcome yej but come to the Hie without *el 

come: why stand upon form? (She relates into her 



THE WITCH 07 VESUVIUS. IO9 

profound reverie. Glaucus takes off /one's outer wraps 
and places a log for her to sit on near the fire.) 

Ione. — We disturb you, I fear. 

Witch {after a long patise) . — Tell me, are ye brother 
and sister? 

Ione (blushing) . — No. 

Witch. — Are ye married? 

Glaucus. — Not so. 

Witch. — Ho, lovers ! ha ! ha ! ha ! {She laughs long 
and loud.) 

Glaucus {after muttering a counter spell). — W T hy dost 
thou laugh, old crone? 

Witch (absently). — Did I laugh? 

Glaucus (to Ione, in a low tone). — She is in her dotage. 

Witch (she has heard the words and has caught his 
eye). — Thou liest ! 

Glaucus. — Thou art an uncourteous welcomer. 

Ione (to Glaucus). — Hush ! provoke her not, dear 
Glaucus ! 

Witch. — I will tell thee why I laughed when I discovered 
ye were lovers. It was because it is a pleasure to the old 
and withered to look upon young hearts like yours and to 
know the time will come when you will loathe each other, — 
loathe — loathe — ha ! ha ! ha ! 

Ione. — The gods forbid ! yet poor woman, thou knowest 
little of love or thou wouldst know that it never changes. 

Witch (quickly). — Was I young once, think ye, and am I 
old and hideous and deathly now? Such as is the form so 
is the heart. (She sinks again into a profound stillness.) 

Glaucus (after a pause). — Hast thou dwelt here long? 

Witch. — Ah, long ! — yes! 

Glaucus. — It is but a drear abode. 

Witch. — Ha ! thou mayst well say that. Hell is beneath 



i 10 III!. WITCH 01 Yl M \ IUS. 

us! (.She points to the earth.) And I will tell thee a 
secret: the dim things below are preparing wrath for ye 
above,— you, the young, and the thoughtless, and the beauti- 
ful. 

GLAUCUS. — Thou interest but evil words, ill becoming 
the hospitable, and in future I will brave the tempest rather 
than thy welcome. 

WlTCH. — Thou wilt do well. None should ever seek me, 
save the wretched. 

GLAUCUS. — And why the wretched? 

Witch {with a grin). — I am the witch of the mountain. 
My trade is to give hope to the hopeless. For the ( rossed 
in love I have philtres : for the avaricious, promises of 
treasure; lor the malicious, potions of revenge; for the 
happy and the good, I have only what life has, — or 
{She turns away. ) Trouble me no more. 

GLAUCUS {turns to four who is seated, drops on his 
knee, seizes her hand and says tenderly) .— lone ! lone ! 

[one {suddenly, seeing a snake emerge from the dry roots 
on the floor, shrieks and seizes Glaucus). — Oh! Glaucus, 
look. 

Glaucus {seizing a half-burned stick to heat off the 
snake). — Witch, command thy creature, or thou wilt see it 
dead. 

Witch {quickly aroused). — It has been despoiled iA it> 
venom. {Glaucus watches the snake which rises up to 
strike at him, and before he has caught the meaning of the 
W'itclCs words, hits the snake SO hard a blow on the head 
that it falls writhing to the floor. The Witch springs up 
with a face full of wrath,) Thou hast had shelter under 
my roof, and warmth at my hearth : thou hast returned 
evil for good ; thou hast smitten and haply slain the thing 
that loved me and was mine : na\ more, tin- creature above 



THE WITCH OF VESUVIUS. Ill 

all others consecrated to gods, and deemed venerable by 
man ; now hear thy punishment. By the moon, who is the 
guardian of the sorceress, by Orcus, who is the treasurer of 
wrath, I curse thee, and thou art cursed ! May thy love be 
blasted, may thy name be blackened, may the Infernals 
mark thee, may thy heart wither and scorch, may thy last 
hour recall to thee the prophet voice of the Sage of Vesu- 
vius ! (She turns to lone.') And thou 

Glaucus. — Hag ! forbear ! Me thou hast cursed and I 
commit myself to the gods. I defy and scorn thee. But 
breathe but one word against yon maiden, and I will con- 
vert the oath on thy foul lips to thy dying groan. Beware ! 

Witch (laughing wildly). — I have done, for in thy doom 
is she who loves thee accursed. And not the less, that I 
heard her lips breathe thy name, and know by what word 
to commend thee to the demons. Glaucus, thou art 
doomed ! (She turns from them, drops on her knees and 
searches for the wounded snake, paying no attention to them.) 

Ione (greatly terrified) . — O Glaucus ! what have we 
done? Let us hasten from this place. The storm has 
ceased. — Good mistress, forgive him ; recall thy words ; he 
meant but to defend himself ; accept this peace-offering to 
unsay the said. (She puts her purse in the Witch's lap.) 

Witch (bitterly) . — Away ! away ! The oath once woven 
the Fates only can untie. Away ! 

Glaucus (impatiently) . — Come, dearest ! Thinkest thou 
that the gods above us or below hear the impotent ravings 
of dotage? Come ! (The Witch laughs long and loud. 
Glaucus and lone go out.) 

CURTAIN 



HIS ENEMY'S HONOR. 

CHARACTERS. 

MacPherson, a very powerful Scot with some Scotch plaid 

apparent 
MacPhail, Bruce, Drunimond, friends of MacPherson. 
Sinclair, a young man of a different clan from the rest and 
of half drunken frenzy. He wears a different Scotch 
plaid from MacPH! RSON'S. 
Situation.—/// a drunken quarrel between two groups from 
different clans Sinclair has killed a man and rushes 
off for safety. Hardly himself he does not recognize 
the house of his bitter enemy and stumbles into the 
room -cohere the following scent takes place. 

There should be an entrance from each side of the 
platform, and a stout club near the door from which 
MacPhERSON comes. 

Enter Sinclair in great confusion. 
Sinclair.— What, ho ! Who hears? A stra igt i claims a 
refuge' Refuge and help ! Is no one in the house? 
( To himself) 'Twas a hot chase— but I have distanced them I 
My brain still whirls— the wine is not yet out. 
What have I done, O, fatal, fatal frenzy! 
N,,w it comes back— the dire reality ! 
() irretrievable and utter wreck 
Of all my hopes, made in one drunken moment ! 
This morning rich ... all that graces life, 



his enemy's honor. 113 

And now — a miserable homicide, 
A hunted fugitive ! 

Enter MacPherson from the other side of the platform. 

MacPherson. — A stranger here? 
I knew not any one was in the room. 
Did no one wait upon you? 

Sinclair. — No. I entered 
By stealth one of the windows in the basement, 
And made my way unchallenged to this room. 
I am pursued — my life is in your hands— 
I throw myself for shelter on your mercy! 

MacPherson. — Pursued? For what? No crime, I hope? 

Sinclair. — No crime, 
Premeditate in act or in intent — 
Nothing to stain my honor ; — yet a deed 
To blacken all my future — ay, to make it 
One long sigh of repentance ! At a tavern, 
A few miles off, a party of us stopped 
And dined. The wine flashed freely. We partook 
More than our brains could carry. Up there came 
Another party of young men, elated, 
Like us, with wine. Quick wakener of contention, 
Politics grew the theme —high words ensued — 
The lie was given — a blow — a fatal blow ! — ■ 
Was struck — and I the giver ! the receiver 
Fell backward — hit the curb-stone with his neck — 
Rose — staggered — dropped — and died ! 

MacPherson. — Unhappy chance ! 

Sinclair. — When the appalling fear that I had killed him 
Grew to conviction, I stood motionless 
And mute with horror. Then a cry of Vengeance ! 



I 14 HE 1 M MYS HONOR. 

Broke from his friends. Mine, overpowered, urged me 
To fly, I ran, scarce knowing how or why, — 
But, with such speed, I soon left my pursuers 
Fat OUt of sight. At length I reached this house, 
And here I stand your suppliant 

MacPherson. — Your reliance 
Shall not be disappointed. On mv hearth 
You stand, a sacred guest. Let that suffice. 
Why do you start? 

Sinclair. — Because your tartan tells me, 
My foes are of your clan. 

MacPherson. — And what of that? 
Did a Macgregor ever yet betray 
Or friend or foe? Did a disloyal host 
Ever yet bear our name? Fear not. Your trust 
Shall be respected. If I heard aright, 
The deed was one of passion, not of malice. 

Sinclair. — (), not of malice — not of brooding malice ! 
But momentary anger — anger, that, 
Quick as the lightning, was as quickly ended, 
Leaving a desolation and regret ! 
O, in that fatal wine-cup there was melted 
A pearl of price, — the relish of a life ! 
Never again the morning sunlight reddening 
My window-pane shall wake a thrill of joy ! 
Never again the smile of innocence 
Shall be reflected from these haggard lips ! 
That sad, appealing look my victim gave me, 
In his last dying throe, will paint itself 
On the void air, and make my memory 
A funeral chamber for the dreadful image 
Forever ! 

M A < Phi rson.-— I'll not try to blunt the edge 



HIS ENEMY S HONOR. I 1 5 

Of your great sorrow. 'T is a wholesome pain. 
That man is less than man who can destroy 
The sacred human life and feel no awe, 
No swelling of compunction. I'd not trust him ! 
To time and to God's mercy I commit you. 

(An impatient knocking is heard outside of the house.) 

Sinclair (listens) . — Hark ! They have tracked me here! 
They knock for entrance" 
I hear their voices. Now the door is opened ! 
They're on the stairs. In their revenge and fury, 
Attempt to stay them, they will dash you down. 

MacPherson. — Enter that room. Whatever you may 
hear, 
Be mute and do not stir. Fear not for me. 

(Sinclair goes out through the same door by which Mac- 
Pherson entered. Enter MacPhail and Bruce.) 

MacPhail. — He is not here ! 

Bruce. — I know not that. — MacPherson, 
A fugitive is sheltered in this house. 
Deny it not. Show us his hiding-place. 

MacPherson. — Unmannerly clown ! And. if a fugitive 
Were here, am I the man to give him up 
On such a summons? Master Archie Bruce 
Go home, and bid your teachers keep you there 
Till you can show a touch of gentle breeding 
When you accost a gentleman. 

MacPhail. — MacPherson, 
You'll blame us not for our disdain of forms, 
When you hear all. You'll readily give up 
The miscreant when you learn he is the slayer 
Of your own son — of Albert ! 

MacPherson. — No ! No ! No ! 



1 1 6 His EN1 MY'S HONOR. 

Albert MacPherson slain? A trick: A trick 

• possession of the fugitive ! 
To make me play the recreant —the traitor. 

Bruce. — So ! He admits it! He admits the culprit 
Is in this house- ! 

M.v Pherson. — ] admit nothing. Boy! 
If what you say i> true, — that lie — my son — 
Is slain — (and now the anguish at my heart 
Confirms the direful blow) — is't not enough, 
For one day's woe, that I'm bereft of him — 
Would ye bereave me of my honor too? 

MACPHAIL. — MacPherson, your own words betray the 
fact, 
That here our man is harbored. 

We must pass through this door. {He goes toward the 
door thtough which Sinclair passed out!) 

MacPherson* — Must pass, MacPhail? Back — trifler! 

Must, indeed ! 
'T is a MacPherson you are dealing with. 
Must is a word that he's not wont to hear 
In his own house — or elsewhere. 

MACPHAIL (with stiff politeness). — Then, MacPherson. 
I pray you suffer us to pass. {Bruce anJ MacPhail ap- 
proach him as if to lay hands on him.) 
MacPherson (seizing the club). — Stand back ! (They 
fall hack.) 
This is my house, and I am master of it. 
Keep a respectful distance. 
MacPhail. Give us up 

The wretch at once or we'll call in assistance. 

MacPherson.— Then yon shall know what desperation is. 

And we'll have havoc. Would you madden nu ? 
Bruce. — The man you shelter i^ a murderer— 



HIS enemy's HONOR. I 1 7 

The murderer of your son ! (A pause.) 

MacPhail. — You hear, MacPherson? 

MacPherson. — Were he the murderer of all my clan, — 
If he had made my hearth a sanctuary, — 
If I had given my word to shelter him, — 
So help me, Heaven ! — I'd perish, hacked in pieces, 
Ere I would violate the sacred pledge ! 
Enter Drummond. 

Drummond. — Where is the homicide ? 

Bruce. — Concealed within, 
As we believe. MacPherson bars our entrance. 
A loving father, truly, 
To try to screen the murderer of his son ! 

MacPherson. — What wouldst thou be? The murderer 
of my honor ! 
Reviler, mocker of a father's anguish, — 
Think you I could have loved my son so well, 
Carried I here the stuff traitors are made of? 
Think you the bitterness of my bereavement 
Sharp as it is, beyond your poor conception, 
Could parallel the pang of treachery 
In a true heart — in a MacPherson heart? 

Drummond. — You've done your best, MacPherson ! On 
your head 
No blame can fall. Away ! and let us enter. 
We must have life for life. Sinclair must die. 

MacPherson. — Sinclair ! You said Sinclair ? 

Drummond. — The son and heir 
Of your most deadly foe. 

MacPhail. — We had forgot 
To mention that. Now you'll not hesitate 
To give him up. 

MacPherson. — A double sanctity 



i lo HIS I M\n 'S HONOR. 

Invests him now. If I had wavered, that 
One mention had confirmed me. 

DRUMMOND. — We waste time. 
Enter we must — by soft means or by hard. 

MacPherson. — Well, Master Drummond, enter if \ou 
dare ! 
Why do you wait? Why waste the time you grudge? 

Sinclair comes back. 

Sinclair. — From further parley I relieve you all ! 
MacPherson, I absolve you from your pledge. 
Thanks for your noble dealing, — for the honor, 
Stronger than vengeance, tenderer than love, 
That would protect one who has thrown a blight 

On all your joys 

Now, seekers of my life, come on and take it ! 
Be quick ! Ye'll only ease me of a burden 
My act has rendered hateful. 

Drummond. — Ho ! Secure him ! 

MacPherson {stepping in front of Sinclair}. — I'd like to 
see the rash one who will venture 
To lay a finger, save in gentleness, 
Upon this youth, Back ! Tamperers with my honor ! 
Out of my house ! That man who tarries longer 
Is in great danger. Out of my house, I say ! ( He brand- 
ishes the club and they all go out by the door they en- 
tered. He follows them to the door and then comes 
back to centre of platform , turns part round and buries 
his face in his hands.) 
Siwi \ir {approaching Mac Plicrson and kneeling) . — Mac- 
Pherson, I am kneeling at your feet ! 

Not tor my life — O, not to thank you, sir. 

For that poor boon which one ungoverned impulse 



HIS ENEMY S HONOR. II9 

Has emptied of all value, — but in token 
Of veneration for true nobleness, — 
Of the prostration of my wretchedness, — 
Of sympathy — of sorrow — of remorse ! 

MacPherson. — O, I am childless. 

Sinclair (rising). — That thought is like a knife 
In my own heart. Let there be expiation ! (He goes to 
the door his enemies just went out of and calls.) 
Drummond ! MacPhail ! Come, seize me ! 

MacPherson {seizing him). — Reckless boy ! 
Would you thus frustrate all my pains to save you? 
Judge you so poorly of me as to think 
I nurse a brute revenge that blood of yours 
Alone can satisfy? — that my affliction 
Such balm could mitigate? 

Sinclair (covenng his face). — O, let me die ! 

MacPherson. — No ! Be a man — and live ! Look up, 
Sinclair ! 
Hark ! (He goes and listens.) I hear angry voices. Your 

pursuers 
In thicker numbers crowd. They will be here 
In half a minute. Come ! This way lies safety. 
They little know the secrets of my hold. 
We'll foil them. Do not doubt it. You shall hide 
Here in my house till I can guide you safely 
To Inverary to your friends. Delay not. 
Will you bring added woe upon my head ? 
Moments are precious. Come ! 

Sinclair. — One word from you, 
And only one, shall from this spot uproot me, 
And that word is forgiveness / 

MacPherson. — *I forgive you. 
As I would be forgiven, I forgive you. 



I 20 HIS KNKMN S HON' >k. 

Sinclair {giving n+m his hand). — 

Lead on, then, my present 

(), let my future tell how much you lift 

From this despairing heart in that one word,. — 

You do forgive me ! 

Now guide me and bestow me as you will ! 

Henceforth, above all prayers, shall rise this prayer, 

That I may live to comfort and requite you ! ,>///.) 



CLEOPATRA AND THE MESSENGER. 



Adapted from Shakespeare ; s " Antony and Cleopatra. 



CHARACTERS. 

Cleopatra, Queen of Egypt, dressed in flowing garments, 
and carrying a small dagger, concealed. 

Charmian, chief attendant on Cleopatra. 

Iras, another female' attendant. 

AlexaSj Mardian, male attendants on the Queen. 

A Messenger from Rome. 

Situation. — Antony has hurried away on imperial matters 
to Rome, leaving Cleopatra very disconsolate. She 
has now gathered her attendants about her in a vain 
endeavor to pass the time without weariness. 

In this scene, Cleopatra shows the most rapid and 
violent changes of emotion, all of which indicate her 
intense passion for the noble Antony. Charmian and 
Mardian are the only attendants that speak, but the 
others must act, fanning Cleopatra, arranging her 
chair or couch, standing guard at the door, etc. Cle- 
opatra ought to sit opposite the entrance and so?ne 
distance from it; and the Messenger should do obeisance 
on entering, and approach very slowly. 

% Enter Cleopatra, Charmian, Iras and Alexas. 
Cleopatra. — Give me some music ; music, moody food 
Of us that trade in love. 

121 



122 «I1. >l'\l k\ AND THE Ml SSI V.I R. 

All. — The music, ho ! 

Enter Mardian. 

CLEOPATRA. — Let it alone ; let's to billiards : come, Char- 
Mi ian. 

Charmian. — My arm is sore; best play with Mardian. 

Cleopatra. — Come, you'll play with me, sir? 

Mardian. — As well as I can, madam. 

Cleopatra. — And when good-will is show'd, though" t 
come too short, 
The actor may plead pardon. I'll none now: 
Give me mine angle; we'll to the river; there, 
My music playing far off, I will betray 
Tawny-finn'd fishes ; my bended hook shall pierce 
Their shiny jaws, and as I draw them up, 
I'll think them every one an Antony, 
And say "Ah, ha ! you're caught." 

Charmian. — 'Twas merry when 
You wagered on your angling ; when your diver 
Did hang a salt fish on his hook, which he 
With fervency drew up. 

Cleopatra. — That time — times ! — 
I laughed him out of patience, and that night 
1 laughed him into patience ; and next morn, 
Ere the ninth hour, I drunk him to his bed ; 
Then put my tires and mantles on him, whilst 
I wore his sword Philippan. 

Enter a Messi ngi r. 

Oh, from Italy! 
Ram thou thy frightful tidings in mine ears, 
That long time have been barren. 
MESSENGER. Madam, madam 

Ci eopatra. — Antonius dead | If thou say so, villain, 



CLEOPATRA AND THE MESSENGER. 1 23 

Thou kill'st thy mistress ; but well and free, 
If thou so yield him, there is gold, and here 
My bluest veins to kiss ; a hand that kings 
Have lipp'd, and trembled kissing. 

Messenger. — First, madam, he is well. 

Cleopatra. — Why, there's more gold. 
But, sirrah, mark we use 
To say the dead are well ; bring it to that, 
The gold I give thee will I melt and pour 
Down thy ill-uttering throat. 

Messenger. — Good madam, hear me. 

Cleopatra. — Well, go to, I will ; 
But there's no goodness in thy face ; if Antony 
Be free and healthful, — so tart a favor 
To trumpet such good tidings ! If not well, 
Thou shouldst come like a Fury crown'd with snakes, 
Not like a formal man. 

Messenger. — WilPt please you hear me? 

Cleopatra. — I have a mind to strike thee ere thou 
speak' st : 
Yet if thou say Antony lives, is well, 
Or friends with Caesar, or not captive to him, 
I'll set thee in a shower of gold, and hail. 
Rich pearls upon thee. 

Messenger. — Madam, he's well. 

Cleopatra. — Well said. 

Messenger. — And friends with Caesar. 

Cleopatra. — Thou'rt an honest man. 

Messenger. — Caesar and he are greater friends than ever. 

Cleopatra. — Make thee a fortune from me. 

Messenger. — But yet, madam, 

Cleopatra. — I do not like " But yet," it does allay 
The good precedence ; fie upon " But yet ! " 



i 24 CI EOPA1 la \M> nil Ml SSI v. Ik. 

" But yet " is as a gaoler to bring forth 

Some monstrous malefactor. Prithee, friend, 

Pour out the pack of matter to mine ear, 

The good and bad together : he's friends with Caesar, 

In state of health, thou say'st, and thou say'st, free. 

MESSENGER. — Free, madam ! no ; I made no such report ; 
He's bound unto Octavia. 

Cleopatra {turning away from him). — I am pale, Char- 
mian. 

MESSENGER. — Madam, he's married to Octavia. 

Cleopatra. — The most infectious pestilence upon thee! 
(She strikes him down,) 

Messenger. — Good madam, patience. 

Cleopatra. — What say you? Hence. {She strikes him 
again.) 
Horrible villain ! or I'll spurn thine eyes 
1 ike balls before me : I'll unhair thy head. ( She drags him 

up and down,) 
Thou shalt be whipped with wire and stewed in brine, 
Smarting in lingering pickle. 

Messenger. — Gracious madam, I that do bring the news 
made not the match. 

Cleopatra. — Say 'tis not so, a province I will give thee 
And make thy fortunes proud ; the blow thou hadst 
Shall make thy peace for moving me to rage, 
And I will boot thee with what gift beside 
Thy modesty can t> 

MESS] \*.i k. — He's married, madam. 

Cleopatra. — Rogue, thou hast lived too long. {She 

dtaws a knife.) 

Messenger. —Nay, then I'll run. 
What mean jrou, madam ? 1 have made no fault. (//(• runs 
out,) 



CLEOPATRA AND THE MESSENGER. 1 25 

Charmian. — Good madam, keep yourself within yourself. 
The man is innocent. 

Cleopatra.— Some innocents 'scape not the thunderbolt. 
Melt Egypt into Nile ! and kindly creatures 
turn all to serpents ! Call the slave again : 
Though I am mad, I will not bite him : call. ( Charmian 
goes to the door and beckons in vain.) 

Charmian. — He is afeard to come. 

Cleopatra. — I will not hurt him. (Charmian goes out) 
These hands do lack nobility, that they strike 
A meaner than myself ; since I myself 
Have given myself the cause. 

Re-enter Charmian dragging in the Messejiger. 

Come hither, sir. 
Though it be honest, it is never good 
To bring bad news : give to a gracious message 
An host of tongues, but let ill tidings tell 
Themselves when they be felt. 

Messenger. — I have done my duty. 

Cleopatra. — Is he married? 
I cannot hate thee worser than I do, 
If thou again say " Yes." 

Messenger. — He's married, madam. 

Cleopatra. — -The gods confound thee ! dost thou hold 
there still? 

Messenger. — Should I lie, madam? 

Cleopatra. — O, I would thou didst, 
So half my Egypt were submerged and made 
A cistern for scaled snakes ! Go, get thee hence : 
Hadst thou Narcissus in thy face, to me 
Thou wouldst appear most ugly. He is married? 

Messenger. — I crave your highness' pardon. 



126 CLEOPATRA AND THE MESSENGER. 

Cleopatra. — He is married ? 

MESSENGER. — 'lake no offense that I would not offend you : 
To punish me for what you make me do 
Seems much unequal : he's married to Octavia. 

CLEOPATRA. — O that his fault should make a knave of thee, 
That art not what thou'rt sure of ! Get thee hence : 
The merchandise which thou hast brought from Rome 
Are all too dear for me : lie they upon thy hand 
And be undone by 'em. {Messenger goes out.) 

Charmian. — Good your highness, patience. 

Cleopatra. — In praising Antony, I have dispraised Caesar. 

Charmian. — Many times, madam. 

Cleopatra. — I am paid for't now. 
Lead me from hence ; 
I faint : O Iras, Charmian ! 'tis no matter, 
Go to the fellow, good Alexas ; bid him 
Report the feature of Octavia, her years, 
Her inclination ; let him not leave out 
The color of her hair : bring me word quickly. {Alexas 

goes out.) 
Let him for ever go : let him not — Charmian, 
Though he be painted one way like a Gorgon, 
The other way's a Mars. {To Mardian.) Bid vnu Alexas 
Bring me word how tall she is. Pity me, Charmian, 
But do not speak to me. Lead me to my chamber. {'J''i<y 
go out.) 



THE BISHOP'S SILVER CANDLESTICKS. 



Adapted from Victor Hugo's " Les Miserables." 



CHARACTERS. 

Bishop Welcome, a venerable, kind-hearted old man. 
Madame Magloire, the Bishop's housekeeper. 
Jean Valjean, an escaped convict of great stre?igtk. 
A Corporal of Police and three Officers. 
Situation. — The convict after searching in vain for a night's 
lodging has been received by the Bishop, given supper 
and a bed. At three o'clock in the morning he rose, 
stole the Bishop's basket of silver plate and went away. 
The scene which follows is in the morning when the 
discovery of the robbe7y is made. Jean Valjean is 
arrested and brought back, but is pardoned by the ten- 
der-hearted Bishop and given two candlesticks in ad- 
dition to what he has stolen. ' 
An empty basket for silver plate is lying on the floor. The 
Bishop enters slowly, picks it up and is walking on 
when Madame Magloire rushes in. 
Madame. — Monseigneur, monseigneur ! does your Gran- 
deur know where the plate-basket is? 
Bishop. — Yes. 

Madame. — The Lord be praised ; I did not know what 
had become of it. 

Bishop. — Here it is. (Hands it to her.) 
Madame. — Well ! there is nothing in it ; where is the plate ? 
Bishop. — Ah ! it is the plate that troubles your mind. 
Well, I do not know where that is. 

127 



1 28 



THE BISHOP'S -ll \l R CAND1 ESTICKS. 



Madame.— Good Lord I it is stolen, and that man who 
came last night is the robber. (She rushes out, but 
hurries back andscreams. ) Monseigneur, the man is g 
the plate is stolen ! (Her eyes fall on a corner of the 
den.) That is the way Ik- went I Heleaped into the lane! 
Oh, what an outrage I He has stolen our plate ! 

Bishop {after a moments silence, raising earnest eyes) .— 
By the way, was that plate ours? (Madame is speech 
Madame Magloire, 1 had wrongfully held back this silver, 
which belonged to the poor. Who was this person? 
dently a poor man. 

Madame. Good gracious! I do not (-are for it, nor does 
Mademoiselle, but we feel for Monseigneur. With what will 
Monseigneur eat now? 

Bishop (in amazement).— -Why 1 are there not pewter 
forks to be had? 

Madame {with a shrug). — Pewter smells. 

Bishop.-— Then iron ! 

Madame {with a grimace). — Iron tastes. 

Bishop.— Well, then -wood? < //,• seems thoughtful.) 

Madame (to herself) — What an idea! to receive a man 
like that and lodge him by one's side. And what a bless- 
ing it is that he only stole ! Oh, Lord ! the mere thought 
makes a body shudder. (She goes out.) 

Bishop (in answer to a knock at the door). Come in. 

( The corporal and three men enter holding another by the 
collar. ) 

Corporal {with a militaty salute). — Monseigneur. 

Convict (tohimseff). — Monseigneur, then he is not the 

(mate. 

Oil hl 1,. — Silence 3 this gentleman i-> Mon the 

Bishop. 

Bishop {advancing with a took of pleasure)-, — Ah : there 



THE BISHOPS CANDLESTICKS. I 29 

you are. I am glad to see you. Why, I gave you the 
candlesticks too, which are also of silver, and will fetch you 
two hundred francs. Why did you not take them away 
with the rest of the plate? (A strange puzzled look comes 
over the coimtenance of the convict.) 

Corporal. — Monseigneur, what this man told us was true 
then? We met him, and as he looked as if he were run- 
ning away, we arrested him. He had this plate 

Bishop {with a smile). — And he told you that it was given 
to him by an old priest at whose house he passed the 
night? I see it all. And you brought him back here? 
That is a mistake. 

Corporal. — In that case we can let him go ? 

Bishop. — Of course. (The officers loose their hold and 
Jean Valjean staggers back.) 

Convict (in utter* bewilderment) . — Is it true that I am 
at liberty? 

An Officer. — Yes, you are let go ; don't you understand ? 

Bishop. — My friend, before you go take your candlesticks. 
( The old bishop goes to mantelpiece, takes candlesticks and 
carries them over to the convict who visibly trembles, yet re- 
ceives them.) Now, go in peace. By the bye when you 
return, my friend, it is unnecessary to pass through the 
garden, for you can always enter, day and night, by the 
front door, which is only latched. (Turning to the Police 
officers.) Gentlemen, you can retire. (They go out. 
The bishop approaches the convict and speaks in a low voice.) 
Never forget that you have promised me to employ this 
money in becoming an honest man. My brother, you no 
longer belong to evil, but to good. I have bought your 
soul of you. I withdraw it from black thoughts and the 
spirit of perdition, and give it to God. (The look of be- 
wilderment on the convicfs face changes to veneration for 
the bishop and he goes out.) 



THE PEASANT BOY'S VINDICATION. 

The last scene of " The Peasant Hoy," a very old play by Dimond. 
CHARACTERS. 

Alberti, the Duke, just returned from the wars, 

Montaldi, his brother, just returned from the gaming tables 
of Italy, where he has lost heavily, 

Julian, an honest-looking young peasant. 

Ludovico, a friend of Alberti, who has met Montaldi else- 
where and knows his character. 

Stefano, a guard who arrests Julian. 

Situation. —Montaldi in despair at his gambling losses ar- 
rives at ALBERTO'S home to find that his brother is ex- 
pected soon to return after a prolonged absence. He 
coldly plans to murder Alberti that he may succeed to 
the dukedom with its financial resources. Lid< >\ H I >, a 
friend of tlie duke, suspects some treacherous design and by 
following MONI u.di is able to prevent the assassination. 
1 1 i ian is arrested and while he is in jail awaiting the 
trial, is offered large bribes by Montaldi to confess the 
assault ; but LUDOVICO sends word to call upon him in 
case of great extremity. 

77ie judge's chair and desk should be so placed that 
MONTALDl'S fight hand in a glove may be very evident 
to the audience. There should be a group of peasants 

in which is 1. 1 dovico at the back of the stage watching 

the trial. 

130 



THE PEASANT BOY'S VINDICATION. 131 

Enter Guards, conducting Julian — all the characters fol- 
low, and a crowd of vassals — Alberti advances to the 
judgment seat. 

Alberti. — My people ! — the cause of your present as- 
semblage too well is known to you. You come to witness 
the dispensations of an awful but impartial justice ; — either 
to rejoice in the acquittal of innocence or to approve the 
conviction of guilt. Personal feelings forbid me to assume 
this seat myself ; yet fear not but that it will be filled by 
nobleness and honor ;— to Montaldi only, I resign it. 

Julian (aside).' — He my judge ! then I am lost indeed. 

Alberti. — Ascend the seat,my friend, and decide from it as 
your own virtuous conscience shall direct. This only will I 
say : should the scales of accusation and defence poise 
doubtfully, let mercy touch them with her downy hand and 
turn the balance on the gentler side. 

Montaldi {ascending the seai). — Your will and honor are 
my only governors ! (Bows. ) Julian ! stand forth ! you 
are charged with a most foul and horrible attempt upon 
the life of my noble kinsman- — the implements of murder 
have been found in your possession, and many powerful 
circumstances combine to fix the guilt upon you. What 
have you to urge in vindication? 

Julian. — On the evening of yesterday, I crossed the 
mountain to the monastery of St. Bertrand ; my errand 
thither finished, I returned directly to the valley. Rosalie 
saw me enter the cottage — soon afterwards a strange out- 
cry recalled me to the door ; a mantle spread before the 
threshold caught my eye ; I raised it, and discovered a 
mask within it. The mantle was newly stained with blood ! 
consternation seized upon my soul — the next minute I was 
surrounded by guards, and accused of murder. They pro- 
duced a weapon I had lost. I had not power to explain the 



132 THE PEASAN] BOY'S VWDK \i ION. 

truth. 1 was dragged to the dungeons of the castle. I may 
become the victim of circumstance, but I never have been 
the slave of crime ! 

Montaldi {smiting ironically).— Plausibly urged; have 
you no more to ofter? 

[Ul ian. — Truth needs not many words — 1 have spoken ! 

MONTALDI. — Vet bethink yourself — dare you abide by this 
wild tale, and brave a sentence on no stronger plea? 

Julian. — Alas ! I have none else to offer. 

Montaldi. — You say, on the evening of yesterday, you 
visited the monastery of St. Bertrand. What was your 
business there? 

Julian (with hesitation). — With father Nicolo— to engage 
him to marry Rosalie and myself on the following morning. 

Montaldi. — A marriage too ! Well ! — at what time did 
you quit the monastery? 

[ulian. — The bell for vesper-service had just ceased to 
toll. 

MONTALDI. — By what path did you return to the valley? 

1 1 i ian. — Across the mountain. 

Montaldi. — Did you not pass through the wood of olives, 
where the dark deed was attempted? 

Julian {recollecting). — The wood of olives? 

Montaldi.— Ha ! mark ! he hesitates — speak ! 

Julian {witik resolution). — I did pass through the wood 
of olives. 

Montaldi.— Ay! and pursuit was close behind. Stefano, 
you seized the prisoner? 

Stefano. — 1 did. The bloody weapon bore his name; 

the mask and mantle were in his hands, and he was shak- 
ing in every limb. 

MONTALDI. — Enough! heavens! that villainy so mon 
strous should inhabit such a tender youth ! Oh, wretched 



THE PEASANT BOY'S VINDICATION. 1 33 

youth, I warn you to confess. Sincerity can be your only 
claim to mercy. 

Julian. — I have spoken truth : yes, — Heaven knows that 
I have spoken truth ! 

Montaldi. — Then I must exercise my duty. Death is 
my sentence. 

Julian. — Hold ! — pronounce it not as yet. 

Montaldi. — If you have any further evidence, produce it. 

Julian {with despairing energy) . — I call on Ludovico. 
(Ludovico steps forward with alacrity — Montaldi recoils 
with visible trepidation.) 

Ludovico. — I am here ! 

Montaldi. — And what can he unfold ! only repeat that 
which we already know. I will not hear him — the evidence 
is perfect 

Alberti {rising with warmth). — Hold ! Montaldi, Ludo- 
vico must be heard ; to the ear of justice, the lightest sylla- 
ble of proof is precious. 

Montaldi {confused). — I stand rebuked. Well, Ludo- 
vico, depose your evidence. 

Ludovico. — Mine was the fortunate arm to rescue the 
duke. I fought with the assassin, and drove him beyond 
the trees into the open lawn. I there distinctly marked his 
figure, and from the difference in the height alone, Julian 
cannot be the person. 

Montaldi. — This is no proof — the eye might easily be 
deceived. I cannot withhold my sentence longer. 

Ludovico. — I have further matter to advance. Just be- 
fore the ruffian fled, he received a wound across his right 
hand; the moonlight showed me that the cut was deep and 
dangerous. Julian's fingers bear no such mark. 

Montaldi {evincing great emotion a?id involuntarily draw- 
ing his glove closer over his hand) . — A wound — mere fable — 

Ludovico. — Nay, more — the same blow struck from off 



134 rHE PEASANI BOYS VINDICATION. 

one of the assassin's fingers, a jewel ; it glittered as it fell ; 
I snatched it bom the grass — I now produce it — 'tis here 
a ring — an amethyst set with brilliants ! 

Alberti [rising hastily). — What say you? an amethyst 
set with brilliants ! even such I gave Montaldi. Let me 
view it. — (As Ludovico advances to present the ring to the 
duke, Montaldi rushes with frantic impetuosity between^ and 
attempts to seise it. ) 

Montaldi — Slave ! resign the ring ! 

Ludovico. — I will yield my life sooner ! 

MONTALDI. — Wretch! I will rend thy frame to atoms ! 
( They struggle with violence, Montaldi snatches at the ring s 
Ludovico catches his hand and tears off the glove — the 

wound appears. ) 

Ludovico.— Murder is unmasked— the bloody mark is 

here! Montaldi is the assassin. (All rush forward in aston- 
ishment — Julian drops upon his knee in mute thanksgiving, ) 

MONTALDI. — Shame ! madness ! hell ! 

ALBERTI. — Eternal Providence! Montaldi a murderer: 

Montaldi. — Ay! accuse and curse! Idiots! Dupes] I 

heed you not ! I can but die ! Triumph not, Alberti — I 

trample on thee still! {He draws a poniard and attempts 

to destroy himself — the weapon is wrested from his hand by 

the guards,) 

Alberti. — Fiend ! thy power to sin is past. 

Montaldi (delirious with pass/on). — Hal ha! ha! my 
brain scorches, and my veins run with fire ! disgraced, dis- 
honored ! oh ! madness ! 1 cannot bear it — save me — oh ! 
{lie falls into the arms of attendants.) 

Albertl— -Wretched man! bear him to his chamber — 

his punishment be hereafter. ( They carry him off, 
|i [JAN.— -Oh! my heart is tOO full for words. 

Alberti. Noble boyl Vou shall have Rosalio, and we 
will all attend the ceremony. — CURTAIN. 



THE BARON AND THE JEW. 



Adapted from the novel, " Ivanhoe," by Sir Walter Scott. 

» 

CHARACTERS. 

Sir Keginald Front-de-Boeuf, a large, cruel old English 
baron. 

Isaac of York, a Jew in the dungeon of the baron. 

Two Saracens, servants of the bar 071. 

Situation. — The Jew, his daughter and many others of a 
company, have just been captured and carried within 
the castle, where Front-de-Bceuf seizes the opportu- 
nity to extract money from the Jew by means of tortur- 
ing irons. The appearance of another party without 
the castle saves the Jew from torture. 

The Baron carries a poniard at his belt and a bunch 
of rusty old keys on his right side. The Jew is crouch- 
ing in the corner of the dungeon. Enter the Baron 
with several slaves, deliberately locks and double locks 
the door, very slowly approaches Isaac, who stares at 
him in perfect ten'or. 

Isaac. — So may Abraham, Jacob, and all the fathers of 
our people assist me. I have not the means of satisfying 
your demand. 

Baron. — Seize him, and strip him, slaves, and let the 
fathers of his race assist him if they can. ( The servants 

135 



I36 l HE BARON AND H1F. JEW 

[saa< , raise him from the floor and glare at A/'/n with 
cunning ferocity. ) 

Isaac {after looking at the baron and the servants), — 

I will pay the thousand pounds of silver — that is, with the 
help of my brethren : for 1 must beg as a mendicant at the 
door of our synagogue ere I make up SO unheard of a sum. 
When and where must it be delivered?' 

Baron. — Here must it be delivered -weighed and told 
down on this very dungeon floor. Thinkest thou I will 
part with thee until thy ransom is secure? 

[SAAC. — And what is to be my surety that 1 shall be at 
liberty after this ransom is paid? 

Baron. — The word of a Norman noble, thou pawn-brok- 
ing slave ; the faith of a Norman nobleman, more pure than 
the gold and silver of thee and all thy tribe. 

Isaac. — I crave pardon, noble lord, but wherefore should 
I rely wholly on the word of one who will trust nothing to 
mine ? 

Baron. — Because thou canst not help it, Jew. Wert thou 
now in thy treasure-chamber at York, and were I craving a 
loan of thy shekels it would be thine to dictate. This is 
my treasure-chamber. Here 1 have thee at advantage, nor 
will I deign to repeal the terms on which I grant thee 

liberty. When shall I have the shekels, Isaac? 

[SAAC. — Let my daughter Rebecca go forth to York with 
your safe conduct, noble knight, and so soon as man and 
horse can return, the treasure (groatis) — the treasure shall 
be told down on this very fli 

Baron. — Thy daughter ! by heavens, Isaac, I would I had 

known of this. I gave yonder black-browed maiden to 

sir Brian de Bois Guilbert. 

|s\\< [yells so that servants loose their hold. He thru 
throws himself down and clasps the knees of the baron). — 



THE BARON AND THE JEW. .137 

Take all that you have asked, sir knight, — take ten times 
more — reduce me to ruin and to beggary, if thou wilt, but 
spare my daughter, deliver her in safety and honor. Will 
you reduce a father to wish that his only living child were 
laid beside her dead mother, in the tomb of our fathers ? 

Baron. — I would that I had known of this before. I 
thought your race had loved nothing save their money-bags. 

Isaac {eagerly) . — Think not so vilely of us, Jews though 
we be. The hunted fox, the tortured wild-cat loves its 
young — the despised and persecuted race of Abraham love 
their children. 

Baron. — Be it so, I will believe it in future, Isaac, for 
thy very sake — but it aids us not now, I cannot help what 
has happened, or what is to follow ; my word is passed to 
my comrade in arms, nor would I break it for ten Jews and 
Jewesses to boot. Besides, w r hy shouldst thou think evil 
is to come to the girl, even if she became Bois Guilbert's 
booty ? 

Isaac. — There will, there must ! {He wrings his hands 
in agony.) When did templars breathe aught but cruelty to 
men and dishonor to women? 

Baron. — Dog of an infidel, blaspheme not the Holy 
Order of the Temple of Zion, but take thought instead to 
pay me the ransom thou hast promised or woe betide thy 
Jewish throat ! 

Isaac {with great passion). — Robber and villain ! I will 
pay thee nothing — not one silver penny will I pay thee, 
unless my daughter is delivered to me in safety and honor ! 

Baron {sternly) . — Art thou in thy senses, Israelite ? Has 
thy flesh and blood a charm against heated iron and scald- 
ing oil ? 

Isaac {desperately). — I care not. Do thy worst. My 
daughter is my flesh and blood, dearer to me a thousand 



'iiii BARON AND mi JEW. 

tunes than those limbs which thy cruelty threatens. No 
silver will I give thee, unless I were to pour it molten down 
thy avaricious throat— no, not a silver penny will 1 
thee, Nazarene, were it to save thee from the deep damna- 
tion thy whole life has merited. Take my life if thou wilt, 
and say the Jew, amidst his tortures, knew how to dis- 
appoint the Christian. 

BARON.— We shall see that; for by the blessed rood, 
which is the abomination of thy accursed tribe, thou shaft 
feel the extremities of fire and steel ! Strip him, slaves, and 
chain him down upon the bars. ( The servants seize Isaac 
and have him partially stripped, when the sound of a bugle 
twice without and voices calling "Sir Reginald Fro* t-de- 
Boeuf" stop proceedings. The baron makes a sign to the 
servants and goes out followed by the servants and Jsaac 
who is putting on his coat.) 



IN LOVE WITH HIS WIFE. 



CHARACTERS. 

Doctor Aiken, a prosperous country physician, wise and 
gentle. 

Josephine Barton, an actress with painted face, and abrupt 
manners. 

Situation. — Doctor Aiken has been in attendance on a poor 
woman in great distress. Her sole companion is an 
actress known as Josephine Barton, who cares for her 
with the utmost devotion. He is impressed with the 
sincere disinterestedness of the actress and discloses his 
own ajfection for her. She proves to be his long lost 
wife. 

The scene takes place in a poor lodging in the country. 
There is a fireplace at the side and a light in the back 
part of the room. 

Actress is sitting by a table in the front of the platform. 
Doctor enters softly from an inner room and closes the 
door carefully. 
Josephine. — Oh, there you are, doctor. How is she 
to-day ? 

Doctor. — Better, thanks to you. 
Josephine. — Oh dear no ! I've done nothing. 
Doctor. — You have nursed her until you are ill and worn 
out yourself. May I feel your pulse ? 
Josephine. — No. 

139 



14 IN LOVE WITH HIS WIFE. 

DOCTOR.— You think you are all right? 

[ ( iiiiNi:.— 1 know 1 am. 

DociOR.— May 1 stay and talk to you a little? 

I pii ink. — If you like. 
l > m K>R.— You have been here a month. 

I phine. — Yes, luckily for Lil, or she would have lost 
her engagement. 

DOCTOR. — And her nurse too. 

JOSEPHINE.— How do you know? I might have gone on 
with the company and left her. 
Doctor.— Might you? 
[OSEPHINE. — Don't think me a saint ! 
Doctor.-— I haven't yet put you in that light I have 
only seen a very good woman. 

Josephine (putting up her hand). — Stop! Talk of 
something else. Now, you would never think, would you, 
that I was playing last night— to look at me, I mean? 
Doctor {giving her an indifferent look). — Well, no. 
Josephine. Make-up, sir. It's a splendid thing to make 
up OUT characters, too, in real life, so that you sha'n't detect 
us. Now you think I'm good? 

DOCTOR.— I think nothing of the kind. 
Josephine [disconcerted). — Good gracious ! Do you 
think I'm bad? 

Doctor {smiling).— I have already told you that your 
devotion to your friend has won my most honest admira- 
tion. 

losKi-iiiNK.— Oh : Well, that's put on. It pays. She- 
will nurse me when 1 am ill, won't she? { Si /me s for </ 
moment.) Doctor, don't believe in me. 

Doctor.—] can't help it. 

JOSEPHINE. Why I am a mass of deceit. What color 
would you call my hair? 



IN LOVE WITH HIS WIFE. 141 

Doctor. — Golden — a golden brown. 

Josephine. — I knew it. My hair is really black, ( he 
starts) dyed, sir, as we dye our very natures, lest you should 
discover the color of our sins. 

Doctor {as if recollecting something amazing). — Black ? 

Josephine. — Of course ! Cleverly managed, that's all. 
It makes a vast difference to a face. Once when we were 
very poor 



Doctor {astonished). — We ! That is, yourself and your 
friend. 

Josephine. — No ! I was married — I meant the child. It 
died. 

Doctor. — I was married too. 

Josephine. — Were you? Is she dead? 

Doctor {quietly). — No ! She ran away. She was very 
young and giddy, and I was grave and stern, and she tired 
of me. That is all. 

Josephine. — And you have hated women from that 
moment, of course. 
« Doctor. — I lost my faith in them. 

Josephine. — Will it never return? 

Doctor {with warmtli). — It has returned. 

Josephine. — What nonsense ! Don't let it ! Yet we 
are, after all, much what men make us. I held my real 
nature hidden for two years at the pleasure of a man, and 
it broke free at last. I was treated like a child just as I 
was struggling to be a woman, and my best impulses were 
laughed at, and kept down. 

Doctor. — And so you leave to-morrow? 

Josephine. — Yes. 

Doctor {with concern) . — To continue to lead this life ? 

Josephine. — Why not? It is no less true for seeming 
false. I remember when my baby died I had to play just 



I4 2 l\ I <»\ I wnii HIS WIFE. 

the same, and in the piece I had to cry, and I did. And 
a woman I knew in the audience told me 1 was a fool to 
put glycerine on my lashes to look like tears, because it 
rained my make-up. That's life! Give men and women 
the real article and they think they see through it, and 
doubt its truth. Give them paste and paint, and they like 
it, and believe it true, and know better than the owner of 
it. People will persist in being too clever ; but, after all, 
they only cheat themsehrs. 

Doctor (smiling). — You are quite a philosopher. 

Josephine. — I am a woman who has suffered — perhaps 
that's the same thing. 

DOCTOR. — You were not educated for the stage? 

[OSI PHINE (bitterly). — No; I was educated for a man. 

Doctor. — You mean 

JOSEPHINE. — I mean I was very young when I married, 
and he was clever, and wished to mould me after his own 
pattern. I chose to pretend this was Impossible ; but my 
nature grew all the same. Let a man beware when he 
crushes ambition and interest in a woman, it will live in 
spite of him, and come to the surface some time. Now, 
your wife 

Doctor. — Was young and foolish — never sinful — that is 
all. 

JOSEPHINE. — And you were never selfish enough to wish 
her sole pride to be in you, her sole interest in your in- 
terests, her sole knowledge, the knowledge you instilled 
into her giddy brain? 

Doctor. 1 hope not. 

[osEPHTNE. — You were never jealous of her mind, as you 
were jealous of hei favor, of her love for art and literature — 
a blind love, for she knew little of either— because you 
could not spare time to instruct her in either? 



IN LOVE WITH HIS WIFE. 1 43 

Doctor. — Again — I hope not. 

Josephine. — Then you were. We never hope about a 
certainty. 

Doctor. — If she had been a woman — well, like you — all 
might have been different. 

Josephine. — Nonsense ! You have seen one side of my 
character, that is all. Men are so quick to imagine the 
surface turned towards them is the only one we women 
own. 

Doctor. — I saw you tending your sick friend. I saw 
your patience and love for her. I see you slaving at your 
profession with no one to help and encourage you, leading 
a life that must be often uncongenial. I want to know 
little more of you than that. 

Josephine. — False ! False ! Everything's false. There 
is nothing real about me. Now, my age ? 

Doctor {smiling) . — You are not very old. 

Josephine. — My back is to the light. Put out your hand 
and touch my cheek. {He does it.) Why, how your hand 
trembles ! Covered with white stuff, of course. Wrinkles 
all hidden. I told you about my hair. 

Doctor. — I don't care. I — I like the woman I know. 
The woman you have been since I first met you — when 
they carried your friend home ill from the theatre, and 
then sent for me. If you are false, I am afraid I love 
falseness. I am foolish enough to have got so far that 
even defamation of yourself from your own lips could not 
harm you. Yet I am glad after all, that you are going ; 
for, as I told you, I have a wife somewhere, and even to 
love you as I love you, is a sin. 

Josephine {rising and walking away) . — You love me. 

Doctor {passionately). — As I never knew one could 
love. I even love this poor, pretty, tortured hair, and 



144 IN I " N B Willi iii^ win. 

these dear tixed eyes. I love you painted, or old, laughing 
or in tears. I seem to have crept out of the cold and 
found your heart as it really is. Don't try to hide it from 
me. The glimpses I have had of it have been paradif 

JOSEPHIN] . Her hair — your wife's hair — was black. 

1 )> ICTOR. -Who told you that? 

JOSEPHINE, — The way you looked when I said what 
mine had been. Try and imagine me with black hair. 

1 kxrrOR. — I can't. 

JOSEPHINE. — And so you love this actress? 

DOCTOR. — -And would marry her if 

Josephine. — If she were your wife. 

Doctor [starting in alarm). — What do you mean? 

Josi i-iiiM ■:. — Look at me well, i He ^ates at her intensely 
for a moment or /zee Then she lays her hand tenderly on 
his arm.) Our little baby died, dear. ( He embraces tier 
and they stand gazing at each other as the curtain fa tls.) 



CHRISTIAN FORGIVENESS. 



CHARACTERS. 

Claudius, a Roman in exile, with a keen, cruel face and un- 
kempt appeai-ance, and with a bent and shrivelled J c orm. 

Philo, a Christian, with noble gentle face and strong athletic 
body. 

Situation. — Claudius as a judge in Rome condemned Philo 
and all his family to the slaicghter of the arena. But 
Philo by his immense strength slew the lion and then 
through Pompilius Taurus effected his escape. His 
father and the rest of his family were killed. In the 
wilderness Philo has wandered, has built himself a 
hut, and has supported a family. Claudius, banished 
from Ro?ne, a homeless, hopeless old man, with only 
cruelties in his past life to contemplate, meets Philo, 
who at first thinks only of vengeance ; but when 
Claudius appeals to his mercy as a Christian he re- 
lents, takes him home and ministers to him. 

The costumes should be the Roman dress of about 
the time of Nero. The scenery represents a thickforest. 

Claudius enters, looking aboiit in despair. 
Claudius. — Alone, in this impenetrable forest ! 
No token of a human habitation, 

Look where I may ! My voice is hoarse with shouting. 
No answer comes, save from some startled bird 
Or creeping thing of prey. ( Calls.). Ho ! Hear me ! 
Ho! 

145 



146 CHRISTIAN FORGIVENESS. 

Vain effort ! — Hark ! The crackling of a bough ! 
A human footstep ! — Yes ! Relief is nigh ! 
Philo enters. 

O, welcome, stranger, whosoe'er thou art ! 
For I am lost in these bewildering thicket-. 
Most timely is thy coming. 

PHILO. — And who art thou? 

Claudius. — A Roman; once in power : now an exile — 
A wretched outcast, plundered and forsaken : 
Compelled to seek this rude and dangerous shelter. 

Philo. — If thou art wretched and an exile, welcome ! 
{Gives his hand,) 

Claudius. — Thou shalt not find me poor in gratitude, 
Though otherwise a beggar. Is there not 
Some place of refuge near us? 

Philo. — On the border 
Of this thick wood, I with my wife and children, 
Dwell in a place I will not call a house, 
But where at least life's poor necessities 
Of food and shelter may be found. The little 
We have to share, thou shalt be welcome to. 

Claudius. — How happens it that thou, a man whose 
speech 
Proclaims thou'rt not a mere clod-turning peasant, 
Canst in a wild like this content thyself, 
Far from the guardianship and pomp of Rome? 

Philo. — The guardianship of Rome ! The guardian- 
ship ! 
Great cause have 1 of gratitude for that ! 
For to Rome's fatal guardianship I owe 
The massacre <>f kindred and of friends ; 
Of father, mother, brothers, butchered— butchered 
All in cold blood I And oh ! for what? 



CHRISTIAN FORGIVENESS. 147 

Claudius. — How ? Butchered ? 
By Rome's authority? A family 
Peaceable and obedient to the laws, 
And guiltless — butchered by authority? 
O, when and where ? 

Philo. — Ten years ago — in Rome ! 
{Aside) Yes it is he ! none other. 
{Aloud) O last of all shouldst thou be ignorant ! 

Claudius. — Butchered by whom? 

Philo. — By thee ! by thee ! Thou art the man ! thou, 
Claudius ! 
The unjust judge, the craven magistrate, 
Creature of Nero, purveyor of his brutal, 
His fiendish cruelties ! Thou art the man ! 
For what — for what was all that wealth of blood, 
Of pure and innocent blood, poured out like water? 
Because it ran in Christian veins ! 

Claudius. — Thou ravest ! 
My hands were never stained with Christian blood. 
{Agitated) You do mistake me for some other man. 
I will depart. {Going.) 

Philo. — Stay ! One lie more or less 
Cannot be much to thee. Thy cowering glance, 
Thy trembling knees, belie thy faltering words. 
Let me refresh thy memory a little. 
Dost thou remember that eventful day, 
In the great amphitheatre, when first 
Thou wert informed, the famous Libyan lion, 
The emperor's favorite, that dreadful beast 
Which thou hadst ordered out to tear in pieces 
A white-haired man, Servetus Cincinnatus, 
(My father !) — had been slain? 
Dost thou recall thy rage against the slayer? 



14& CHRISTIAN FORGH I Nl 5S. 

Thou dost ! /slew the beast ! — Vain all disguise ! 

I UJDIUS. — How — how didst thou escape? 

Philo. — Ah, ha ! Thy words, — 

Thy very words betray thee ! Even now, 

[f tear would et thee, thou wouldst plunge thv dagger 

Here in my heart But how did I escape? 

I'll tell thee how. The man thou didst most trust 

Be< ame a Christian. 

Claudius. — He ! Pompilius Taurus 
Oh, had I known it then ! 

Philo. — Poor, baffled hound! 
I )ost thou regret, even in retrospection, 
The relish ofa disappointed vengeance? 
Why do thy fingers work so? Ah ! thou W0uldst> 
But durst not ! What are thy limbs and sinews 
Compared with these that have been trained and tested 
In wrestling with wild nature for my food, 
With the fierce bear for life, or with the gale 
Upon the lake, for safety? 

CLAUDIUS. — Do not abuse thy power ! Forgive — forgive 
me ! 

Philo. — Forgive thee? Oh ! Have I not often revelled 
In the anticipation of a moment 

Like this now present —when 1 could have thee thus — 
With no one by— when 1 could grasp thee thus — (Grasps hitn!\ 
Thus thus by the throat — and hiss into thy ear. 

Remember old — Servetus ! 

Claudius. — Mercy ' 

Philo. — Mercy? 
\\ ' even such mercy as thou didst show, abhorred one, 
Show to that gray-haired man, his kneeling wife, 

\ i ii 1 his imploring children ! 

Thy only answer to their prayer was death J 



CHRISTIAN FORGIVENESS. 1 49 

Not a swift, easy death, but one of torture, — 

Of horror, — in the amphitheatre, — 

Torn by wild beasts ! Dost thou dare plead for mercy? 

Claudius {sinking on his knees). — As thou'rt a man, 
be merciful ! 

Philo. — That plea 
Will not avail. 

Claudius. — Ah ! then, as thou'rt a Christian ! {A pause, 
during which Philo gently and gradually releases his 
hold and Claudius rises.) 

Philo. — And dost thou venture to pronounce that name, 
The sacred name, by thee so spurned and hated? 
I thank thee for it, Claudius ! Ay, I thank thee. 
Thou hast recalled me to my better self. 
Bloody oppressor, diligent murderer, 
And persecutor of all Christian men, 
As thou hast been, — with every hair of thy head 
Steeped in my family's blood, — still, do not fear ! 
Thou 'rt safe. 

Claudius. — Thanks ! thanks ! ( Going.) 

Philo. — Why, whither wouldst thou go? 

Claudius. — To find a shelter for the night. 

Philo. — To perish ! 
What with the hungry wolf, the inclement air, 
Slender thy chance of life ! 

Here ! Come with me, and thou shalt have a bed 
In my poor hut, with food, and warmth, and safety. 
Wilt thou not trust me? 

Claudius. — Oh, thy wrongs have been 
Too deadly for forgiveness ! 

Philo. — Knowest thou not, 
The Christian, if a Christian, must forgive, 
As he would be forgiven by the Father? 



150 ( HkKiiw PORCH 1 M SS. 

Claudius. — But here forgiveness fails. I blame thee not 

For now, in this majestic solitude, 

My (rimes start up between me and all hope, 

I know it is not in the heart of man, 

Where such wrongs cry aloud, to east out vengean 

PmLO. — " Vengeance is mine ! 1 will repay, saith the 
Lord ! " 

I do forgive thee Claudius. 

The Christian's act shall tell thee what h\sfait/t is. 

Not the dear child who hangs about my Deck 

And calls me father shall more tenderly 

Be cared for and protected from all danger 

Than thou, if thou wilt come and be my guest. 

Dost thou believe me? 
Claudius {core ring his face, in agony), — Ay ! 1 cannot 
help it. 

The creed must be divine that works this change. 

O that I could blot out the hateful past '. 

O that I might cast of! that weight of sin ! 
PmLO. — This is no fitful mood. 

'Tis Christ's own hand has led thee here, my brother ; 

And from that hand, with reverence I accept thee. ( Tak- 
ing Jiis hand.) 

Do not despair ! There's balm for thee in Gilead. 

Hereafter, should I waver in my kindness, 

Utter again that plea: "As thou'rt a Christian I " {They 
go out.) 



A WIFE AND A HOME. 



CHARACTERS. 

Colonel Mason, an old man, follower of Cromwell, 
Juliet Mason, his daughter. 
Ernest Montague, a young follower of the King. 
Michael, a servant to Colonel Mason. 

Situation. — Ernest Montague has been banished from Eng- 
land, and his property has been seized by the Round- 
heads of Cromwell and given to Mason. For various 
reasons Montague secretly visits England and takes 
occasion to revisit the scenes of his youth. Here he meets 
and falls in love with Juliet. She does not know that 
he formerly owned her home. 

The scene should represent an old-fashioned garden 
of the middle of the seventeenth century. On one side 
is a strong door or gate to the garden. The wall is 
high. It was the fashion then to say " thou " and " thee." 
The costumes should be old-fashioned, and if possible 
of the time of the Roundheads and Cavaliers. 

Scene I. 

Juliet Mason, alone. She has a sprig of lavender in her 

hand. 

Juliet. — Oh, Ernest Montague. — He promised to meet 

me here by eight, and the great clock in the hall wanted 

but five minutes full half an hour ago. It must be half an 

151 



I 5^ A WIFE AND A » 

hour. I have been pacing up and down this walk from the 
yew-hedge to the fountain, twenty times at least, In- 
going twice to the little door in the garden wall, to be sure 
that it was unbolted. It can't he a minute less than half an 
hour. He had as well stay now in his hiding place at the 
village, for I'll never speak to him again. Never I and yet. 
poor fellow. — No ! I'll never speak to him again ! — (Ernest 
Montague copies in stealthily, lie looks round, then hastens 
to //or and takes her hand* She turns away.) So, Sir 
Ernest. 

ERNEST. — So, my pretty Miss Juliet? Why turn awa\ 
angrily? What fault have 1 committed, I pray tin 

JuiIET. — Fault? None. 

ERNEST. — Nay, nay, my little Venus of the Puritans, my 
princess of all Precisions, if thou be offended, tell me - 

JULIET. — Offended, forsooth ! People are never offended 
with people they don't care about. — Offended I 

ERNEST. — And is it because some people don't care for 
other people, that they put their pretty selves into such 
pretty tantrums— eh, Miss Juliet? I am after time, sweet — 
but 

JULIET. — After time ! I have been here this half-hour ! 
— and my father fast asleep in the hall ! After time ! If 
thou had'st cared for me — But men are all alike. There 
hath not been a true lover in the world since the days of 
Amadis — and that was but a false legend. After tinu 
Why, if thou hadst cared lor me only as much as I i 
for this sprig of lavender, thou wouldst have been waiting 
for me, before the chimes had rung seven. Just think of 
the time thou hast lost. — Now thou mav'st go tin ways 
Leave me, sir ! (She trios to withdraw her hand,) 

Ernest. Nay, mine own sweet love, do not offer to 
snatch thy hand away. 1 cannot part with thee, Juliet. 



A WIFE AND A HOME. 1 53 

though thou shouldst flutter like a new caught dove. I 
must speak with thee. I have that to say which must be 
heard. 

Juliet.— Well ! 

Ernest. — I have been dogged all day by a canting Puri- 
tan, a follower, as I take it, of thy godly father. 

Juliet. — Jeer not my father, Ernest, although he be a 
roundhead and thou a cavalier. He is a brave man and a 
good. 

Ernest. — He is thy father, and therefore sacred to me. 
Where did'st thou say he is now? 

Juliet. — I left him in the hall, just settling quietly to an 
after-supper nap. — Why dost thou ask? 

Ernest. — I have been watched all day by one whom I 
suspect to be a spy ; and I fear me, that in spite of my 
disguise, my false name, and my humble lodging, I am 
discovered. 

Juliet. — Discovered in thy visits here? Discovered as 
my friend? 

Ernest. — No, no, I trust not so. Therefore I delayed 
to come to thee till I could shake off my unwelcome 
follower. Not discovered as thy lover, thy friend, if such 
name better please thee — but as the cavalier and malignant 
(for so their phrase runs) Ernest Montague. 

Juliet. — But granting that were true, what harm hast 
thou done ? What hast thou to fear ? 

Ernest. — Small harm, dear Juliet, and yet in these bad 
days small harm may cause great fear. I have borne arms 
for the king ; I have never acknowledged the Protector; 
and moreover, I am the rightful owner of this same estate 
and mansion of Montague Hall, its parks, manors, and 
dependencies, bestowed by the sequestrators on thy father, 
Colonel Mason. Seest thou no fear there, fair Juliet? 



|J4 A WIFE AND A Hn.MK. 

|ii rex. — Alas ! al 

ErNI ST. —Then my deceased father, stout old Sir William. 

has meddled in every plot and rising' in the country. I 
the first year of the Rebellion to this, as I well I 
last of the usurpation, SO that the very name sounds life 
fire-brand. Twoukl be held a fair service to t. 
Juliet, to shoot thy poor friend; and yet 1 promise I 
albeit a loyal subject to king Charles, I am hardly fool 
enough to wage war in my own single person against 
whom a mightier conqueror than himself will speedily < 
throw. 

lri.iri.--A mightier conqueror ! 

ERNEST.— Even the great tyrant death— he who levels 
the mighty and the low— Ernest Montague and Oliver 

Cromwell ! 

Juliet.— Death ! Art thou then in such peril? And dost 

thou loiter here? I beseech thee away ! away this moment I 
what detains thee? 

Ernest.— That which brought me here— thyself. Being 
in England I came hither, more weeks ago than 1 care to 
think of, to look on my old birth-place, my old home. 1 
saw thee, Juliet, and ever since 1 have felt that these walls 
are a thousand-fold more precious to me as thy hon 
thy inheritance, than ever they could have been as mine. 
I love thee, Juliet 

|u hi.— Oh, go ! go ! go ! To talk of love whilst thou 

art in such danger ! 

Ernest. 1 love thee, my own Juliet. 
Juliet. -Go I 

ERNEST.— Wilt thou go with me? 1 am not rich— I have 
no fair mansion to take thee to : but a soldier's arm, and a 
true heart, lulict I Wilt thou go with me. sweet One? I'll 
bring horses to the little garden door. The moon will be 



A WIFE AND A HOME. 1 55 

up at twelve (She sobs in his arms.) — Speak, dearest ! And 
yet this trembling hand speaks for thee. Wilt thou go with 
me and be my wedded wife? 

Juliet. I will. (He goes out as he came in, and she 

goes out on opposite side, looking and motioning to him.) 

Scene II. 

Ernest enters from the side door. 
Ernest. — Juliet ! Not yet arrived ! Surely she cannot 
have changed her purpose? No, no ! it were treason 
against true love but to suspect her of wavering — she lingers 
from maiden modesty, from maiden fear, from natural 
affection, from all that man worships in woman. But if 
she knew the cause I have to dread every delay ! 

Juliet enters fro7?i the house. 
Juliet ! sweetest — how breathless thou art ! Thou canst 
hardly stand ! Rest thee on this seat a moment, my Juliet. 
And yet delay — hath aught befallen to affright thee? Sit 
here, deaiest ! What hath startled thee? 

Juliet. — I know not. And yet — 

Ernest. — How thou tremblest still ! And what 

Juliet. — As I passed the gallery. — Only feel how my 
heart flutters, Ernest ! 

Ernest. — Blessings on that dear heart ! Calm thee, 
sweetest. — What of the gallery? 

Juliet. — As I passed, methought I heard voices. 

Ernest. — Indeed ! And I too have missed the detected 
spy who hath been all day dogging my steps. Can he — 
but no ! All is quiet in the house. Look, Juliet ! All 
dark and silent. No light save the moonbeams dancing on 
the window panes with a cold pale brightness. No sound 
save the song of the nightingale — dost thou not hear it? 



156 a win wi- \ HOME. 

It seems to come from the tali shrubbery sweet-briar, which 
sends its fragrant breath in at yonder casement 

[UUET. — That is my father's chamber- my dear, dear la 
ther ! Oh, when he shall awake and find his Juliet g 
little will the breath of the sweet-briar! or the song of the 
nightingale comfort him then'. My dear, dear father'. 
He kissed me after prayer^ to-night, and laid his hand on 
my head and blessed me. He will never bless his poor 
child again. 

Ernest. — Come, sweetest ! The horses wait; the hours 
wear on ; morning will soon be here. 

[ULIET. — Oh, what a morning to my poor, poor father ! 
His luliet, his only child, his beloved, his trusted : Oh, 
Ernest, my father ! my father I {She sods on his should 

Ernest.— Maiden, if thou Lovest thy father better than 
me, remain with him. It is not yet too late. 1 love thee. 
luliet, too well to steal thee away against thy will, too well 
to take thy hand without thy heart. The choice is still 
open to thee. Return to thy father's house, or wend with 
me. Weep not thus, dear one ; but decide, and quickly. 

j ri ,,.,. — \ aV) 1 will go with thee, Ernest. Forgive these 
tears ! I'll go with thee to the end of the world. {A noise. 
They start. ) 

Ernest. — Now then. What noise is that? 

fULTET. — Surely, surely the turning of a key. ( They both 
jump to (heir feet in alarm.) 

Ernest {he trios to open door). — Ay, the garden door is 
fastened ; the horses are led off. We are discovered. 

|ri 11 1.— Is there no other way of escape? 

ERNEST. None. The garden is walled round. Look 
at these walls, Juliet ; a squirrel could scarcely climb them. 
Through the house i^ the only chance : ;md that 

[uuet. — Try the door again; 1 do beseech thee, try. 



A WIFE AND A HOME. 157 

Push against it — I never knew it fastened other than by 
this iron bolt. Push manfully. (He struggles with door.) 

Ernest. — It is all in vain; thou thyself heard'st the key 
turn ; and see how it resists my utmost strength. The door 
is surely fast. 

Juliet. — See ; the household is alarmed ! Look at the 
lights ! Venture not so near, dear Ernest. Conceal thee 
in the arbor till all is quiet. I will go meet them. 

Ernest. — Alone ? 

Juliet. — Why, what have I to fear? Hide thee behind 
the yew-hedge till the first search be past, and then 

Ernest. — Desert thee ! Hide me ! And I a Montague ! 
But be calmer, sweetest ! Thy father is too good a man 
to meditate aught unlawful. 'Twill be but some short re- 
straint, with thee for my warder. Calm thee, dearest. 
(They shrink back almost out of sight.) 

Enter Colonel Mason and a servant with an old-fashioned 
arquebus s. 

Colonel Mason. — Shoot ! Shoot instantly, Michael. 
(Michael fumbles with fuse.) Slay the robber ! Why dost 
thou not fire ? Be'st thou in league with him ? What dost 
thou fumble at? 

Michael. — So please your worship, the wind hath extin- 
guished the touch-paper. (He holds up a bit of burnt 
paper.) 

Colonel Mason. — The wind hath extinguished thy wits, 
I trow, that thou couldst bring aught but that old arquebuss. 
Return for a steel weapon. (Michael goes out.) Meantime 
my sword — I see but one man, and surely a soldier of the 
Cause and Covenant, albeit aged, may well cope with a 
night-thief. Come on, young man. Be'st thou coward as 
well as robber? Defend thyself. 



158 A WIFE AND A HOME. 

[uuet. — Oh, father ! father ! (She rushes to him.) Wouldst 
thou do murder before thy daughter's eyi 

Colonel Mason.— Cling not thus around me, maiden. 
What makest thou with that thief, that craven thief? 

ERNEST. — Nay, tremble not, Juliet ; for thy sake I will 
endure even this contumely. — Put up your sword, sir, it is 
needless. 1 yield myself your prisoner. Wlu-n I make 
myself known to Colonel Mason, I trust that he will retract 
an expression as unworthy of his character as of mine. 

COLONEL Mason. — I do know thee. Thou art the foul 
malignant Ernest Montague ; the abettor of the plotting 
traitor Ormond : the outlawed son of the lawless cavalier 
who once owned this demesne. 

Ernest. — And knowing me for Ernest Montague couldst 
thou take me for a garden robber? Couldst thou gru 
to the sometime heir of these old halls a parting glance of 
their venerable beauty? 

Colonel Mason. — Young man, wilt thou tell me, darest 
thou tell me, that it was to gaze on this old mansion that 
thou didst steal hither, like a thief in the night? Ernest 
Montague, canst thou look at thy father's house and utter 
that falsehood? Ye were a heathenish and blinded genera- 
tion, main props of tyranny and prelacy, a worldly and a 
darkling race, who knew not the truth ;— but yet, from your 
earliest ancestor to the last possessor of these walls, ye had 
amongst the false gods whom ye worshipped, one idol, 
called Honor. {The young man shakes his head.) Ernest 
Montague, I joy that thou hast yet enough of grace vouch- 
safed to thee to shrink from affirming that lie. 

Ernest. — lint a robber : a garden-thief ! 

Colonel Mason. — Ay, a robber ! 1 said, and 1 repeat, a 
robber, a thief, a despoiler. Hath tin- garden no fruit 
its apricots and dewberries? Hath the house no treasure 



A WIFE AND A HOME. 159 

but its vessels of gold and silver? If ever thou art a father, 
and hast one hopeful and dutiful maiden, the joy of thine 
heart, and the apple of thine eye, {she sifiks down and 
covers her face to hide he? tears) . then thou wilt hold 
all robbery light, so that it leaves thee her, all robbers guilt- 
less save him who would steal thy child. Weep not thus, 
Juliet. And thou, young man, away. I joy that the old 
and useless gun defeated my angry purpose — that I slew 
not my enemy on his father's ground. Away with thee, 
young man ! Go study the parable that Nathan spake to 
David. I will not make thee prisoner in the house of thy 
fathers. Thank me not; but go. — (He turns away.) 

Juliet {rising). — Father, hear me ! 

Colonel Mason. — Within \ To-morrow ! {He points 
to the house.) 

Juliet {falling on her knees.) — Nay, here and now. 
Thou hast pardoned him ; but thou hast not pardoned me. 

Colonel Mason. — I have forgiven thee — I do forgive 
thee. 

Juliet. — Thou knowest not half my sins ! I am the prime 
offender, the great and unrepenting culprit. I loved him, 
I do love him ; we are betrothed, and I will hold faithful to 
my vow ! Never shall another man wed Juliet Mason ! 
Oh, father, I knew not till this very hour how jdear thy poor 
child was to thy heart — Canst thou break hers? 

Colonel Mason {tenderly.) — Juliet, this is a vain and 
simple fancy. 

Juliet. — Father, it is love — plead for us, Ernest. 

Ernest. — Alas ! I dare not. Thou art a rich heiress ; I 
am a poor exile. 

Juliet. — Out on such distinctions ! one word from my 
father ; one stroke of Cromwell's pen, and thou art an exile 
no longer. Plead for us, Ernest ! 



IUO A win. AND A HOME. 

ERNEST. — Juliet, I dare not. Thy father is my benefac- 
tor; he has given me life and liberty! Wouldst thou have 
me repay these i;ifts by bereaving him of his child? 

JULIET. — We will not leave him. We will dwell together. 
Ernest, wilt thou not speak? {Si/enee.) 

Colone] Mason {looking /o>h s r and searching^ at Mon- 
tague?) His honorable silence hath pleaded better for him 
than words. Krnest Montague, dost thou love this maid? 

Ernest. — I )o I love her ! 

COLONEL Mason. — I believe in good truth that thou dost. 
Take her then from the hand of her father. — There is room 
enough in yonder mansion for the heir and the heiress, the 
old possessor and the new. Take her, and Heaven bless ye, 
my children ! {He goes out and they follow arm in arm.) 



AURELIAN AND ZENOBIA. 



Adapted from " Zenobia," by William Ware. 



CHARACTERS. 

Aurelian, a dark, powerful man, courageous, generous, 
quick-tempered, — Emperor of Rome. 

Zenooia, tall, beautiful, and commanding in form and 
feature, — Queen of Palmyra. 

Antiochus, powerfully, but loosely built, dull, unprincipled, 
— betrayer of Queen. 

Sindarina, very dark, tall, slender, — an Indian princess, 

slave of Queen, accomplice of Antiochus. 
Julia, daughter of Zenobia. 

Cams, an officer of high rank in the Roman army. 
Officers, guards, attendants. 

Situation. — Zenobia, Queen of Palmyra, has become so 
great in the East that Aurelian, Emperor of Rome, 
has demanded the relinquishing of all titles but that of 
Queen of Palmyra. She defies him. He sets out for 
the East, defeats her in two battles, and besieges 
Palmyra. As she is secretly going to ask aid of a 
neighboring nation, she is betrayed and led to the tent 
of Aurelian. There, the following intennew takes 
place. 

161 



1 62 UK I I IAN AND ZENOBIA. 

Auri i IAN, Cari s, and two officers shun/ at //it- side of the 
platform, watching the slow approach of ZENOBIA, 

Julia and an attendant, 
Aurelian {evidently affected by the majestic bearing of 
Zenobid) . — It is a happy day for Rome, {he salutes her 

courteously) that sees you, lately Queen of Palmyra and 
of the Bast, a captive in the tent of Aurelian. 

ZENOBIA (fin a melancholy tone). — And a dark one for 
my afflicted country. 

Aurelian. — It might have been darker, had not the good 
providence of the gods delivered you into my hands. 

Zenobia. — The gods preside not over treachery. And it 
must have been by treason among those in whom I have 
placed my most familiar trust, that I am now where and 
what I am. It had been a nobler triumph to you, () Roman, 
and a lighter fall to me, had the field of battle decided the 
fate of my kingdom, and led me prisoner to your tent. 

AURELIAN. — Doubtless it had been so; yet was it for me 
to cast away what chance threw into my power? A war 
is now happily ended, which, had your mission succeeded, 
might yet have raged — and but to the mutual harm of two 
great nations. Vet it was a bold and sagacious device. A 
more determined, a better appointed or more desperate 
foe, I have never yet contended with. 

ZENOBIA. — It were strange indeed, if you met not with a 
determined foe, when lite and liberty were to be defended. 
Had not treason, base and accursed treason, given me up 
like a chained slave to your power, yonder walls must have 
fust been beaten piecemeal down by your engines, and 
buried me beneath their ruins, and famine cinched all whom 
the sword had spared, ere we had owned you master. 
What is life, when liberty and independence Are gone? 

AURELIAN. — but why, let me ask, were you moved to 



AURELIAN AND ZENOBIA. 1 63 

assert an independency of Rome? How many peaceful 
and prosperous years have rolled on since Trajan and the 
Antonines, while you and Rome were at harmony. Why 
was this order disturbed? What madness ruled to turn 
you against the power of Rome ? 

Zenobia. — The same madness that tells Aurelian he may 
yet possess the whole world, and sends him here into the 
far East to wage needless war with a woman — Ambition ! 
Yet had Aurelian always been upon the Roman throne, or 
one resembling him, it had perhaps been different. There 
then could have been naught but honor in any alliance that 
had bound together Rome and Palmyra. But while the 
thirty tyrants were fighting for the Roman crown, was I to 
sit still waiting humbly to become the passive prey of 
whosoever might please to call me his? By the immortal 
gods, not so ! I asserted my supremacy and made it felt. 
I came in and reduced the jarring elements of the Eastern 
provinces, and out of parts broken and sundered, and 
hostile, constructed - a fair and well-proportioned whole. 
And when I had tasted the sweets of sovereign and despotic 
power — what they are, thou knowest — was I tamely to 
yield the whole at the word or threat even of Aurelian? It 
could not be. Sprung from a royal line, and so long upon 
a throne, it was superior force alone — divine or human — 
that should drag me from my right. Thou hast been but 
four years king, Aurelian, monarch of the great Roman 
world, yet wouldst thou not, but with painful unwillingness, 
descend and mingle with the common herd. For me, 
ceasing to reign, I would cease to live. 

Aurelian. — Thy speech shows thee well worthy to reign. 
It is no treason to Rome, Carus (he turns to his general) , 
to lament that the fates have cast down from a throne one 
who filled its seat so well. Hadst thou hearkened to my 



jO^ AUR1 I I IN AND Zl NOBIA. 

message thou mightest still, lady, have sat upon thy native 
Beat Th< A Palmyra might still have girt thy 1 

Zl NOBIA. — But not of the I 

Ai ki i ian.- 1 lanu-nt. great Queen,— for sol may call 
thee— that upon an ancient defender of our Roman honor, 
upon her who revenged Rome upon the insolent Persian, 
this heavy fate should fall. The debt of Rome to Zenobia 
is great, and shall yet in some sort at least be paid Cu 
upon those who moved thee to this war. They have brought 
this calamity upon thee, Queen, not 1 nor thou. This is* 
not a woman's war. 

ZENOBIA.— Rest assured, great prince, that the war was 
mine. I had indeed great advisers, Longinus, Gracchus, 
Zabdas, Otho. Their names are honored in Rome as well 
as here. They have been with me, but without lying or 
vanity, I may say I have been their head. 

AureuAN.— Be it SO : nevertheless, thy services shall be 
remembered.— Rut let us now to the affairs before us. The 
city has not surrendered— though thy captivity is known, 
the gates are still shut. A word from thee would open them. 

Zenobia (indignantly).— It is a word 1 cannot speak. 

Wouldst thou that 1 too should turn traitor? 
• /VurelIAN. — It surely would not be that. It can avail 
naught to intend further it can but end in a wider des- 
truction, both of your people and my soldiers. 

Zenobia.— Longinus, 1 may suppose is now supreme. 

Let the emperor address him and what is right will be 

done. . 

Aurelian ( he turns ami converses a moment wtth Jus 

fc ers y— Within the walls thou ha>t sons. Is it not SO? 

Zenobia (quickly in alarm).— \\ is not they, nor either 
of them who have conspired against m< I 

Aurelian.— No— not quite so. Ye\ he who betrayed 



AURELIAN AND ZENOBIA. 1 65 

thee calls himself of thy family. Thy sons surely were not 

in league with him. — {Speaking in a louder tone) Soldiers, 

lead forth the great Antiochus and his slave. {The Queen 

starts at the name, Julia utters a faint cry.) 

Antiochus enters, followed by Sindarina, who stands for a 

moment with bowed head, then in great emotion rushes 

to the Queen, throws herself at her feet covering them 

with kisses. 

Zenobia {with deep sorrow) . — My poor Sindarina ! (Sin- 
darina' s sobs choke her utterance?) 

Aurelian (sternly) . — Bear her away, — bear her from the 
tent. (A guard seizes her and hurries away.) This (he 
turns to Zenobia) is thy kinsman, as he tells me — the 
Prince Antiochus? (Zenobia makes no reply.) He has done 
Rome a great service. (Antiochus straightens himself up?) 
He has the merit of ending a weary and disastrous war. It 
is a rare fortune to fall to any one. 'Tis a work to grow 
great upon. Yet, Prince, the work is not complete. The 
city yet holds out. If I am to reward thee with the sover- 
eign power, as thou say est, thou must open the gates. Canst 
thou do it? 

Antiochus (eagerly). — Great Prince, it is provided for. 
Allow me but a few moments, and a place proper for it, 
and the gates I warrant shall swing quickly upon their 
hinges. 

Aurelian (ironically) .—Ah ! do you say so ? That is 
well. What, I pray, is the process? 

Antiochus. — At a signal which I shall make, noble Prince, 
and which has been agreed upon, every head of every one 
of the Queen's party rolls in the dust — Longinus, Gracchus, 
and his daughter, and a host more — their heads fall. The 
gates are then to be thrown open. 

Aurelian. — Noble Palmyrene, you have the thanks of 



l66 M Rf 11 \\ AND /I N« 'IMA. 

all. Of the city then we are at length secure. For this. 
thou wouldst have the rule of it under Rome, wielding a 

sceptre in the name of the Roman senate, and paying 
tribute as a subject province? Is it not so? 

ANTIOCHUS. — It is. That is what I would have, and- 
would do, most excellent Aurelian. 

AURELIAN. — Who are thy associates in tins? Are the 
Queen's sons of thy side and partners in this enterpris 

Antiochus. — They are not privy to the design to deliver 
up to thy great power the Queen their mother; but they 
are my friends, and most surely do I count upon their sup- 
port As I shall return king of Palmyra, they will gladly 
share my power. 

Aurelian [in terrific tones). — But if friends of thine they 
are enemies of mine. They are seeds of future trouble. 
They may sprout up into kings also, to Rome's annoyance. 
They must be crushed. Dost thou understand me? 

ANTIOCHUS. — I do, great Prince. Leave them to me. I 
will do for them. Put to say the truth they are too weak 
to disturb any — friends or enemies. 

Aurelian. — Escape not so. They must die. 

ANTIOCHUS [somewhat alarmed), — They shall, they shall ; 
soon as I am within the walls their heads shall be sent to thee. 

Aukki.ian. — That now is as I would have it. One thing 
more thou hast asked — that the fair slave who accompanies 
thee be spared to thee, to be thy Oueen. 

ANTIOCHUS. — It was her desire — hers, noble Aurelian, not 
mine. 

AUREl ian. But didst thou not engage to her as much? 

ANTIOCHUS. — Truly I did. Put among princes SUCh words 

are but politic ones: that is well understood. Kings man) 
for the state. I would be higher matched. [He lo(>k^ 
nificantfy toward Julia!) Am 1 understood? (The* 



AURELIAN AND ZENOBIA. 1 67 

silence a moment.) The Princess Julia I would raise to 
the throne. {He seems to swell in importance.) 

Aurelian (turning away towards the Queen and then 
towards his officers and atte?idants.) — Do I understand 
thee ? I understand thee to say that for the bestowment of 
the favors and honors thou hast named, thou wilt do the 
things thou hast now specifically promised ? Is it not so ? 

Antiochus. — It is, gracious king. 

Aurelian. — Dost thou swear it ? 

Antiochus. — I swear it by the great God of Light. 

Aurelian (His counte?iance becomes black with fury and con- 
tempt. Antiochus starts and turns pale). — Romans, pardon 
me for so abusing your ears ! An.d you, our royal captives ! 
I knew not that such baseness lived — still less that it was 
here. — (Turning to Antiochus.) Thou foul stigma upon 
humanity ! Why opens not the earth under thee, but that it 
loathes and rejects thee ! Is a Roman like thee, dost thou 
think, to reward thy unheard of treacheries? Thou knowest 
no more what a Roman is, than what truth and honor are. — 
Soldiers ! seize yonder miscreant, write traitor on his back, 
and spurn him forth the camp. His form and his soul 
both offend alike. Hence monster ! (Antiochus trembles 
all over, appeals to the Emperor' s mercy, but a guard stops his 
mouth, and drags him away. His shrieks are heard in the 
distance.) It was not for me to refuse what fate threw 
into my hands. Though I despise the traitorous informer, 
I could not shut my ear to the facts he revealed, without 
myself betraying the interests of Rome. But believe me, 
it was information I would willingly have spared. My 
infamy were as his, to have rewarded the traitor. Fear not, 
great Queen. I pledge the word of a Roman and an 
Emperor for thy safety. Thou are safe both from Roman 
and Palmyrene. 



1 68 AURELIAN AMD ZENOBIA. 

ZenOBIA. — What I have but now been witness of, assures 
me that in the magnanimity of Aurelian 1 may securely 
rest. 

Aurelian. — Guards, conduct the Queen to the palace 
set apart for her. {//<■ bows. Zenobia and Julia bow and 
go out followed by guard. Aurclian and officers then go out 
on other side.) 



ADVANCED DIALOGUES 
AND PLAYS 



THE FRENCH DUEL. 



Adapted from " A Tramp abroad," by Mark Twain. 



CHARACTERS. 

Gambetta, a very tall, fleshy man x with black pointed beard 
and long straight moustache. 

Fourtou, a small, thin man, adversary to Gambetta. 

Mark Twain, thin, of medium height, with gray drooping 
moustache, second to Gambetta. 

Pompadour, a tall, thin man, with long curled moustache 
and imperial, dressed like a dancing master and carry- 
ing gloves ; second to Fourtou. 

3VL Noir, a journalist. 

Surgeons, undertakers, police and a crowd. 

Situation — M. Gambetta, and M. Fourtou have quarreled 
in the French Assembly and the inevitable result is a 
great public duel. Mark Twain hears of the quarrel 
and immediately hurries to assist his friend, M. Gam- 
betta. 

The dialogues occur in three places, in the reception 
room of M. Gambetta, in a hotel parlor, where the 
seconds meet, and in afield. 

In the beginning Gambetta is very quick and nervous, 
while Mark Twain is very slow and deliberate. They 
make a strong contrast. M. Fourtou has nothing to 
say and only appears in the last scene. M. Noir ap- 
pears for only a minute and simply bows thanks. M. 



2 THE FRENCH DUEL. 

GAMBETTA always has a memorandum book with him. 

In the last seme, as there is not room for thirty 
yards to be measured off on the platform, the two seconds 

should place a mark for GAMBETTA in plain sight on 
one side, and place FOURTOU out of sight opposite him. 
FOURTOU is so far away and the fog is so dense that 
GAMBETTA cannot see his adversary at all. Practically 
Gambetta fires into space and falls on Mark Twain. 

Scene I. 
GAMBETTA is stamping about his reception room as Mark 
Tw ain enters. Pie throws his arms round M ark Twain 's 
neck, kisses him on both cheeks, hugs him four or five 
times and seats him in his arm-chair. 
Twain. — I suppose you wish me to act as your second. 
Gamketta.— Of course. 
Twain. — You have drawn up your will? 
GAMBETTA. — Oh, no, no, that will not be necessary. 
Twain. — I shall insist upon it. I never heard of a man 
in his right mind going out to fight a duel without first 
making his will. 

Gambetta.— I never heard of a sane man doing any- 
thing of the kind; but if you insist I will make it. — {He 
walks in agitation back and forth a moment thinking deeply.) 
—My friend, how do these words strike you for a dying ex- 
clamation— " I die for my (iod, for my country, for freedom 
of speech, for progress, and the universal brotherhood of 

man ! " 

Twain (with some hesitation, shaking his head). — That 
would require too lingering a death. It would be a good 
speech for a consumptive— It is scarcely suited to exigencies 
of the field of honor. 

GAMBETTA (he has been mumbling over words to him- 



THE FRENCH DUEL. 3 

self and at last bursts out). — Well, how's tliis? "I die 
that France may live ! " 

Twain (as if a little afraid of offending). — That is better, 
but it does not seem to have much connection with the 
case. 

Gambetta. — Oh, relevancy is of no consequence in last 
words; what you want is thrill. (He pulls out his mem- 
orandum book and writes.) "I — die — that — France — may 
—live ! " 

Twain (after a moment's pause). — The next thing in or- 
der is the choice of weapons. 

Gambetta (nei~vously). — My friend, I am not well. I 
will leave that and the other details of the meeting to you. 
(He goes out.) 

Twain (looking after him with a calm smile) . — Just as I 
expected — steeped in a profound French calm ! — Well, the 
weapons ! (Rises, goes to the desk and writes. He reads a 
few words aloud.) Sir : M. Gambetta — accepts — M. 

Fourtou's — challenge (He folds up the note, puts it in 

an envelope, and seals it. He rises, finds his hat a?id gloves 
and goes out.) 

Scene II. 

The Reception Room of a Hotel. M. Pompadour is looking 
in a mirror adjusting his cravat whe?i Mark Twain 
enters with a letter. 

Twain. — Are you M. Fourtou's second? 

Pompadour. — I have that honor. 

Twain. — Then this is for you. (He hands him the note.) 

Pompadour (he receives the note with a profound bow, 
turfis to the furthest corner of the platform, opens note and 
reads aloud). — "Sir : — M. Gambetta accepts M. Fourtou's 
challenge, and authorizes me to propose Plessis-Piquet as 
the place of meeting ; to-morrow morning at daybeak as 



4 I 111 FRENCH I'll l . 

the time ; and axes as the weapons. I am, sir, with great 
respect, Mark Twain,* 1 {He shudders at the word "axes" 

He holds note folded in his hand, turns back to Twain and 
saxs solemnly.) Have you considered, sir. what would be 
the inevitable result of such a meeting as this? 

Twain. — Well, for instance, what would \\ be? 

Pompadour. — Bloodshed ! 

Twain. — That's about the size of it. Now, if it is a fair 
question, what was your side proposing to shed? 

Pompadour (a shocked look comes over his face). — Well, 
a— a— I will explain myself.— I spoke jestingly. A— a— 
I — an d mv principal would enjoy axes, — and — indeed, pre- 
fer them, — but such weapons are barred by the French 
code, and 

-[Vain. — And so I must change my proposal. ( // 
walks the floor a moment, then stops short.) I propose 
Gatling guns at fifteen paces. 

Pompadour {shaking his head). — The code is again in 

the way. 

Twain. Rifles ! {Pompadour shakes his head.) Double- 
barreled shot guns ! {Another shake of the head.) Colt's 
navy revolvers ! {Another shake. Twain reflects a moment.) 
I suggest brick-bats at three-quarters of a mile. 

POMPADOUR. — Ah, monsieur, I will submit this last pro- 
position to my principal. (//'• ret/res.) 

Twain (looking round very much astonished). — What? — 
That beats me ! He probably never heard a joke. 
Pompadour re-enters. 

Pompadour.— Sir, mv principal is charmed with the idea 
of brick-bats at three-quarters of a mile, but must decline on 
account of the danger to disinterested parties passing be- 
tween. 

Twain.— Well, 1 am at the end of mv string, now. Per- 



THE FRENCH DUEL. 5 

haps you would be good enough to suggest a weapon. 
Perhaps you have even had one in your mind all the time. 

Pompadour. — Oh, without doubt, monsieur ! (He 
searches his pockets and mutters to himself.} Now what 
could I have done with them? (He brings at last from his 
vest pocket two small toy pistols. He hands them to Twain.) 

Twain (He goes across the roo?n uncertain what he holds.) 
— Oh ! Pistols ! {He hangs one on his watch-chain and 
returns the other. Pompadour now tmrolls a postage stamp 
containing cartridges and gives one cartridge to Twain.) 
Does this mean that our men are to be allowed but one 
shot apiece? 

Pompadour. — Ah, monsieur, the French code allows no 
more. 

Twain (in despair at the French code). — I beg you, go 
on. Suggest a distance — My mind is growing weak under 
this strain. 

Pompadour. — Sixty-five yards. 

Twain (in great anger), — Sixty-five yards, with these in- 
struments? Squirt-guns would be deadlier at fifty. Con- 
sider, my friend, you and I are banded together to destroy 
life, not make it eternal. 

Pompadour. — Ah, monsieur, make it fifty yards but sixty- 
five is better. 

Twain. — There is no use in fighting at that distance. 
Put it thirty-five and I'll let you off. 

Pompadour (sighing and throwing tip his hands in p?-o testa- 
tion). — I wash my hands of this slaughter ; on your head 
be it. (He goes out and then Twain goes out on the other 
side.) 

Scene III. 
As in Scene I. the Reception Room of M. Gambetia. Gam- 
betta is in grea, agitation and has fust to7'n a hand- 



6 THE i Ki WCH M EL. 

ful of hair out and laid it on the tabic as Twain enters 
on tin- opposite side. 
Gambetta (springing toward Twain). — You have made 

the fatal arrangements,— 1 see it in your | 

Twain. — I have. 

Gambetta (He trans on the table for support. He 
breathes heavily for a moment, then hoarsely whispers.} — 

The weapon, the weapon ! Quick ! what is the weapon? 

Twain. — This ! (He displays with some contempt the 
tiny pistol and Gambetta faints away. Twain tries in vai/t 

to raise him.) 

GAMBETTA (mournfully, after he has come to). — The un- 
natural calm to which I have subjected myself has told 
upon my nerves. But away with weakness ! | He risi 
his feet.) I will confront my fate like a man and a French- 
man. (He assumes an attitude of statuesque sublimity:) 
Behold I am calm, I am ready ; reveal to me the d i stan ce . 

Twain. — Thirty-five yards. 

Gambetta (he falls to the floor again, Twain rolls him 
aver and pours a glass of water down his back, at last he 
revives, sits up and says). — 'Thirty-five yards — without a 
rest? But why ask? Since murder was that man's inten- 
tion, why should he palter with small details? But mark 
one thing : in my fall the world shall see how the chivalry 
of France meets death. (He rises to his feet and after a 
pause speahs.) Was nothing said about that man's family 
standing up with him, as an offset to my bulk? But no 
matter: I would not stoop to make such a suggestion ; if 
he is not noble enough to suggest it himself, he is welcome 
to this advantage, which no honorable man would take. 
(He sinks into \ sort of stupor of reflection , from which he 
rouses himself) 'The hour,— what is the hour of the ool 
lision? 



THE FRENCH DUEL. 7 

Twain. — Dawn, to-morrow. 

Gambetta (astonished). — Insanity ! I never heard of 
such a thing. Nobody is abroad at such an hour. 

Twain. — That is the reason I named it. Do you mean 
to say you want an audience ? 

Gambetta {impatiently). — It is no time to bandy words. 
I am astonished that Monsieur Fourtou should ever have 
agreed to so strange an innovation. Go at once and re- 
quire a later hour. (He waves his hand and goes o?it.) 

Twain (lie snatches his hat and rushes out of the opposite 
door only to encounter M. Fourtou 'j second. He backs 
courteously into the room and ushers in M. Pompadour, how 
is followed by another man, M. Noir). — I beg your pardon 
sir, I was looking for you. 

Pompadour. — I have the honor to say that my principal 
strenuously objects to the hour chosen, and begs you will 
consent to change it to half past nine. 

Twain (with a smile of great satisfaction) . — Any courtesy, 
sir, which it is in our power to extend is at the service of 
your excellent principal. We agree to the proposed change 
of time. 

Pompadour. — I beg you to accept the thanks of my 
client. — (He turns to the man behind him) — You hear, M. 
Noir, the hour is altered to half past nine. (M. Noir bows 
and departs.) — (To Twain) If agreeable to you, your chief 
surgeons and ours shall proceed to the field in the same 
carriage, as is customary. 

Twain. — It is entirely agreeable to me, and I am obliged 
to you for mentioning the surgeons, for I am afraid I should 
not have thought of them. How many shall I want? I 
suppose two or three will be enough? 

Pompadour. — Two is the customary number for each 
party. I refer to " chief " surgeons; but considering the 



8 THE FRENCH DUEL. 

exalted positions occupied by our clients, it will be well 
and decorous that each of us appoint several consulting 
surgeons, from among the highest in the profession. These 
will come in their own private carriages. Have you en- 
gaged a hearse? 

Twain {amazed). — Bless my stupidity, I never thought 
of it ! I will attend to it right away. I must seem 
ignorant to you ; but you must try to overlook that because 
I have never had any experience of such a swell duel as 
this before. I have had a good deal to do with duels on 
the Pacific coast, but I see now they were crude affairs. 
A hearse, — sho ! we used to leave the elected lying around 
loose, and let anybody cord them up and cart them off that 
wanted to. Have you anything further to suggest ? 

Pompadour. — Nothing, except that the head undertakers 
shall ride together, as is usual. The subordinates and mutes 
will go on foot, as is also usual. I will see you at eight 
o'clock in the morning and we will then arrange the order 
of the procession. I have the honor to bid you a good 
day. {He goes out with an elaborate flourish of his hand. 
Twain knocks on the inner door and soon Gambetta issues 
from it.) 

Gambetta. — Ah, back again ! at what hour is the enga 
ment to begin? 

Twain. — Half past nine. 

Gambetta. — Very good indeed. Have you sent the Diet 
to the newspapers? 

Twain (in horror). — Sir! If after our long and intimate 
friendship you can for a moment deem me capable of so 
base a treachery 

Gambetta. — Tut, tut ! What words are these my dear 
friend: 5 Havel wounded you Ah, forgive me ; I am 
overloading you with labor. Therefore go on with the 



THE FRENCH DUEL. 9 

other details, and drop this one from your list. The bloody- 
minded Fourtou will be sure to attend to it. Or I myself — 
yes, to make certain, I will drop a note to my journalistic 
friend, Monsieur Noir 

Twain (in great relief). — Oh, come to think, you may 
save yourself the trouble ; that other second has informed 
Monsieur Noir. 

Gambetta. — H'm ! I might have known it. It is just 
like that Fourtou, who always wants to make a display. 

Twain. — Now if you wish me to take charge of your 
will 

Gambetta. — Oh, yes ; yes, that will -a-a-a-(/£<? retires to 
the inner room). 

Scene IV. 

The Duel — a Field — Thick Fog. The duellists sit very near 
the front of the platform, but as far apart as possible, 
with their backs towards the centre of the platform. 
Fourtou stares straight in front of him ; Gambetta 
studies diligently his memorandum book and mutters 
now and then " I die that France may live." Across 
the back of the platform file very solemnly two poet- 
orators with their funeral orations projecting from their 
coat pockets, surgeons with frightful cases of instru- 
ments, camp-followers, police and citizens. The two 
seconds consult a little to one side. 
Pompadour. — Let us place a mark here (he is standing 
on the extreme side of the platform) and then pace off the 
distance in that direction (he points to the opposite side). 

Twain. — That suits me to a dot. (They cross the plat- 
form in step and apparently continue on beyond. They come 
back and approach their principals.) 



io THE 1 KI NCH DU1 1 . 

Twain. — Monsieur Gambetta, are you ready? 

(Iami.i ma (expanding to enormous width) . — Ready! let 

the batteries be charged. ( The two seconds load the pi 
in plain sight of all concerned an,/ then station Gambetta 
on tin' mark set for him, but march Fourtou off the platform 
opposite Gambetta* Twain returns to his principal. A 
police officer now steps up to Twain and whispers in his 
ear.) 

Twain {holding up his hand to stop proceedings) . — A delay 
is begged while these poor people (a number hare gathered 
in the centre of the back of the platform) be put in a place 
of safety. Let them take position behind the duellists. — 
(He turns to his principal who has turned about and seems 
disheartened.) Indeed, sir, things are not as bad as they 
seem. Considering the character of the weapons, the 
limited number of shots allowed, the generous distance and 
the added fact that one of the combatants is one-eyed and 
the other cross-eyed and near-sighted, it seems to me that 
this conflict need not necessarily be fatal. There are 
chances that both of you survive. Therefore cheer up ; do 
not be downhearted. 

Gambetta. — I am myself again ; give me the weapon. 

( He receives the tiny thing in his great palm and shud: 
Alas, it is not death I dread but mutilation. 

Twain. — Sir, you have every reason to expect the most 
honorable treatment from all concerned. You hav< every 
hope of success. Be heartened and stand firm. 

Gambetta (encouraged). — Let the tragedy begin. Stand 

at my back ; do not desert me in this solemn hour, my 
friend. 

TWAIN. — 1 promise. {He assists him to point the pistol.) 
Now listen to the whoop of the other second. {He props 
himself against Gambetta' s back and shouts) Whoop-ee ! 



THE FRENCH DUEL. II 

{This is answered by a faint whoop in the distance.) — One, 
— two, — three, — fire ! {The two tiny pistols go off with a 
spit ! spit ! and Twain is crushed down to the floor beneath 
the enormous weight of Gambetta.) 

Gambetta {with haste and confusion). — I die for 

perdition take it, what is it I die for ? oh, yes, — France ! 

I die that France may live! {The surgeons swarm round 
Gambetta with probes and microscopes but find no wound. 
He rises, rushes into the arms of his adversary. Everybody 
embraces his neighbor except Twain, who raises himself dis- 
consolately on one hand and looks round with agony in his 
face. The surgeons soon come to him and knead him over, 
withdraw to one side for consultation, make some motions 
and some men pick him up. A procession is formed with 
Twain, thus carried, at the head. For an instant they halt 
zuhile Gambetta says distinctly, pointing to Twain.). 

Gambetta. — I am proud to know the only man who has 
been hurt in a French duel in forty years. {The procession 
then goes outy 



MRS. HARDCASTLE'S JOURNEY. 



Adapted from " She Stoops to Conquer," by Oliver Goldsmith. 



CHARACTERS. 



Hastings, a well dressed, polite young man from the city* 

Tony, a big, awkward youth front the country, rough and 
coarsely dressed. 

Mr. Hardcastle, a hearty out-spoken far/her, vigorous in 
mind and body. 

Mrs. Hardcastle, a nervous excitable woman in gaudy at- 
tire, spattered with mud and water. 

Situation. — Mrs. Hardcastle objects to the attentions which 
I Eastings pays her niece Constanci Neville, /// order 

to separate them she orders TONV, although the night is 
dark, to drive CONSTANCE and he; self to his Aim 

Pedigree's, fructify miles away, Tony in the interest of 
Hastings, who lias planned to elope with Constance, 

plays a trick on the ladies and lands them at th< 
of their own garden. J lis hard drive of three hours 
has so tired his mothers horses that it is impossible to 
pursue the eloping couple. 

Scene. — lite back of a garden. 

/utter HASTINGS, looking round for some one. 

Hastings. — What an idiot I am to wait here for a fellow 
who probably takes delight in mortifying me! He never 

intended to he punctual, and I'll wait no longer. (//e 



MRS. HARDCASTLE S JOURNEY. 1 3 

starts away but stops.) What do I see? It is he, and 
perhaps with news of ray Constance. 

Enter Tony with high top boots, spattered with mud. 
My honest squire ! I now find you a man of your word. 
This looks like friendship. 

Tony. — Ay, I'm your friend, and the best friend you 
have in the world, if you knew but all. This riding by 
night, by the by, is cursedly tiresome. It has shook me 
worse than the basket of a stage-coach. 

Hastings. — But how? Where did you leave your fellow 
travellers? Are they in safety? Are they housed? 

Tony. — Five-and-twenty miles in two hours and a half is 
no such bad driving. The poor beasts have smoked for it. 
Rabbit me, but I'd rather ride forty miles after a fox, than 
ten with such varment. 

Hastings. — Well, but where have you left the ladies ? I 
die with impatience. 

Tony. — Left them? Why, where should I leave them, 
but where I found them? 

Hastings. — This is a riddle. 

Tony. — Riddle me this then. What's that goes round 
the house, and round the house, and never touches the 
house ? 

Hastings. — I'm still astray. 

Tony. — Why, that's it, mon. I have led them astray. 
By jingo, there's not a pond or slough within five miles of 
the place, but they can tell the taste of. 

Hastings. — Ha, ha, ha ! I understand : you took them 
in a round, while they supposed themselves going forward. 
And so you have at last brought them home again. 

Tony. — You shall hear. I first took them down Feather- 
bed Lane, where we stuck fast in the mud. I then rattled 
them crack over the stones of Up-and-Down Hill — I then 



14 MRS. HAREM AM I I S J01 RN1 V. 

introduced them to the gibbet, on Heavy-tree Heath ; and 

from that with a circumbendibus, I fairly lodged them in 
the horse-pond at the bottom of the garden. 

Hastings. But no accident, I hope. 

Tow. — No, no. Only mother is confoundedly frightened. 
She thinks herself forty miles off. She's sick oi the journey, 
and the rattle can scarce crawl. So, if _\our own hor-< 
ready, you may whip off with cousin, and I'll be bound 
that no soul here can budge a foot to follow you. 

HASTINGS. — My dear friend, how can I be grateful? — 
But I must hasten to relieve Miss Neville: if you keep the 
old lady employed, I promise to take care of the young 
one. 

Tony', — Never fear me. (He hears a noise, looks off to 
the side of the platform and then speaks?) Here she comes, 
Vanish ! She's got from the pond, and draggled up to the 
waist like a mermaid. (HASTINGS hurries out on one side 
while Mrs. Hardcastle staggers in on the other.) 

Mrs. HARDCASTLE. — Oh, Tony, I'm killed — shook — 
battered to death. I shall never survive it. That last jolt, 
that laid us against the quickset hedge, has done my busi- 
ness. 

Tony. — Alack ! mamma, it was your own fault. You 
would be for running away by night, without knowing one 
inch of the way. 

Mrs. HARDCASTLE. — 1 wish we were at home again, 1 never 
met so many accidents in so short a journey. Drenched in 
the mud, overturned in a ditch, Stuck fast in a slough, 
jolted to a jelly, and at last to lose our way ! Whereabouts 
do you think we are, Tony ? 

Tony.— By my guess we should be upon Crackskull Com- 
mon, about forty miles from home. 

Mrs. Hardcastle. —Oh, iudl oh, ludl the most ootori- 



MRS. HARDCASTLE'S JOURNEY. 1 5 

ous spot in all the country. We only want a robbery to 
make a complete night on't. 

Tony. — Don't be afraid, mamma ! don't be afraid. Two 
of the five that were kept here are hanged, and the other 
three may not find us. Don't be afraid. (He suddenly 
starts.) Is that a man that's galloping behind us? No, its 
only a tree. Don't be afraid. 

Mrs. Hardcastle. — The fright will certainly kill me. 

Tony {starting again). — Do you see anything like a 
black hat moving behind the thicket? 

Mrs. Hardcastle. — Oh, death ! 

Tony. — No, it's only a cow. Don't be afraid, mamma : 
don't be afraid. 

Mrs. Hardcastle. — As I'm alive, Tony, I see a man 
coming towards us. Ah ! I'm sure on't. If he perceives 
us, we are undone. 

Tony (aside) .—Father-in-law, by all that's unlucky, come 
to take one of his night walks. (To her.) Ah ! it's a high- 
wayman, with pistols as long as my arm. An ill-looking 
fellow. 

Mrs. Hardcastle. — Good Heaven, defend us ! He 
approaches. 

Tony. — Do you hide yourself in that thicket, and leave 
me to manage him. If there be any danger, I'll cough and 
cry — hem ! When I cough, be sure to keep close. {Mrs. 
Hardcastle hides.) 

Enter Mr. Hardcastle, looking round. 

Hardcastle. — I'm mistaken, or I heard voices of people 
in want of help. ( Tony steps azvayfrom his mother's hiding 
place to meet his father-in-law.) Oh, Tony, is that you? 
I did not expect you so soon back. Are your mother and 
her charge in safety? 

Tony. — Very safe, sir, at my Aunt Pedigree's. Hem ! 



16 MRS. hardcastle's journey. 

Mrs. Hardcastle [she speaks to herself from behind flu 

bush). — Ah, death ! I find there's danger. 

HARDCASTLE. — Forty miles in three hours; sure that's 
too much, my youngster. 

TONY. — Stout horses and willing minds make short jour- 
ney, as they say. Hem ! 

Mrs. Hardcastle {she pops her head out). — Sure he'll do 
the dear boy no harm ! 

Hardcastle.— But 1 heard a voice here; I shall be glad 
to know from whence it came. 

Tony. — It was I, sir ; talking to myself, sir. I was say- 
ing that forty miles in three hours was very good going — 
hem ! As to be sure it was — hem ! I have got a sort of 
cold by being out in the air. We'll go in, if you please — 
hem ! {He moves a little farther away from his mother's 
hiding-place.) 

Hardcastle. — But if you talked to yourself you did not 
answer yourself. I am certain I heard two voices and am 
resolved (raising his voice) to find the other out. 

Mrs. Hardcastle {looking out). — Oh ! he's coming to 
find me out. Oh ! 

Tony {trying to detain him, getting in his way, etc), — 
What need you go, sir, if I tell you — hem ! I'll lay down 
my life for the truth — hem ! I'll tell you all, sir 

HARDCASTLE. — I tell you, I will not be detained. I in- 
sist on seeing. It's in vain to expect I'll believe you. 

Mrs. Hardcastle [running forward from behind). — Oh, 
hid, he'll murder my poor boy, my darling! Here, good 
gentleman, whet your rage upon me. Take my money, my 
life ; but spare that young gentleman, spare my child, if 
you have any mercy. 

Hardcastle. — My wife! as I'm a Christian. l-'rom 
whence can she come, or what docs she mean? 



MRS. HARDCASTLE S JOURNEY. I 7 

Mrs. Hardcastle {kneeling). — Take compassion on us, 
good Mr. Highwayman. Take our money, our watches, 
all we have ; but spare our lives. We will never bring you 
to justice ; indeed, we won't, good Mr. Highwayman. 

Hardcastle. — I believe the woman's out of her senses. 
What ! Dorothy, don't you know me ? 

Mrs. Hardcastle (she starts up to her feet). — Mr. Hard- 
castle, as I'm alive ! My fears blinded mo. But who, my 
dear, could have expected to meet you here, in this fright- 
ful place, so far from home? What has brought you to 
follow us? 

Hardcastle. — Sure, Dorothy, you have not lost your 
wits ? So far from home, when you are within forty yards 
of your own door? (To him.) This is one of your old 
tricks, you graceless rogue, you. (To her.) Don't you 
know the gate, and the mulberry tree? and don't you re- 
member the horse-pond, my dear? 

Mrs. Hardcastle. — Yes, I shall remember the horse- 
pond as long as I live : I have caught my death in it. (To 
Tony.) And is it to you, you graceless varlet, I owe all 
this? I'll teach you to abuse your mother, I will. 

Tony. — Ecod, mother, all the parish says you have spoiled 
me, and so you may take the fruits on't. 

Mrs. Hardcastle. — I'll spoil you, I will. (She follows 
him as he hastens away off the platform.) 

Hardcastle. — There's morality however in his reply. 
(He has a knowing look as he goes out.) 



A MATTER OF DUTY. 



Adapted from " The Dully Dialogues," by Anthony Hope. 



CHARACTERS. 



Mr. Carter, a well dressed man, refected lover of Lady 

MlCKLEHAM. 

Lady Mickleham, a beautiful young lady just married to 

young Lord Archibald Mickleham. 
Situation. — Lady Mickleham is back from her honeymoon. 

She has summoned Mr. CARTER, a former suitor, to an 
afternoon tete-a-tete. She carries a fan and he has 
near him his hat. Her mother-in-law is referred to as 
the Dowager, a stern, uncompromising woman, who 
lives at The Towers, 

Lady Mickleham and Mr. Carter sit conversing with an 

afternoon tea-table between them. 

Mr. Carter. — I didn't know you were back. 

Lady Mickleham. — Oh, we've been back a fortnight, 
but we went to The Towers. They were all there, Mr. 
Carter. 

Mr. Carter. — All who? 

Lady Mickleham. — All Archie's people. The Dowager 

said we must get really to know one another as soon as 

possible. I'm not sure 1 like really knowing people. 

It means that they say whatever they like to you, and don't 

get up out of \our favorite chair when you come in. 

iS 



A MATTER OF DUTY. I 9 

Mr. Carter. — I agree that a trace of unfamiliarity is not 
amiss. 

Lady Mickleham. — Of course, it's nice to be one of the 
family. 

Mr. Carter. — The cat is that. I would not give a fig 
for it. 

" Lady Mickleham. — And the Dowager taught me the 
ways of the house. 

Mr. Carter. — Ah, she taught me the way out of it. 
(He picks up his hat which is on a chair near by.) I do 
not, however, see how I can help in all this, Lady Mickleham ! 

Lady Mickleham. — How funny that sounds ! 

Mr. Carter. — Aren't you accustomed to your dignity yet? 

Lady Mickleham. — I meant from you, Mr. Carter. It 
wasn't that I wanted to ask you about. (She sighs.) It 
was about something much more difficult, you won't tell 
Archie, will you? 

Mr. Carter {putting down his hat) . — This becomes in- 
teresting. 

Lady Mickleham. — You know, Mr. Carter, that before I 
was married — oh, how long ago it seems ! 

Mr. Carter. — Not at all. 

Lady Mickleham. — Don't interrupt. That before I was 
married, I had several — that is to say, several — well, sev- 
eral 

Mr. Carter (encouragingly). — Start quite afresh. 

Lady Mickleham. — Well, then, several men were silly 
enough to think themselves — you know. 

Mr. Carter (cheerfully). — No one better. 

Lady Mickleham. — Oh, if you won't be sensible ! — Well, 
you see many of them are Archie's friends, as well as mine ; 
and of course they've been to call. 

Mr. Carter. — It is but good manners. 



20 A MAI I 1 R ol DUTY. 

Lady Mickleham. — One of them waited to be sent for, 
though. 

Mr. Carter. — Leave that fellow out. 

Lady Mickleham. — What 1 want to ask you is this — and 
I believe you're not silly, really, you know, except when you 
choose to be. 

Mr. Carter. — Walk in the Row any afternoon, and you 
won't find ten wiser men. 

Lady Mickleham. — It's this. Ought 1 to tell Archie? 

Mr. Carter. — (iood gracious ! Here's a problem ! 

Lady Mickleham. — Of course. (Opening her fan,) It's 
in some ways more comfortable that he shouldn't know. 

Mr. Carter. — F'or him? 

Lady Mickleham. — Yes— and for me. Hut then it 
doesn't seem quite fair. 

Mr. Carter. — To him? 

Lady Mickleham. — Yes — and to me. Because if he 
came to know from anybody else, he might exaggerate the 
things, you know. 

Mr. Carter. — Impossible ! 

Lady Mickleham. — Mr. Carter! 

Mr. Carter. — I — er — mean he knows you too well to uo 
such a thing. 

Lady Mickleham. — Oh, I see. Thank you. Yes. What 
do you think? 

Mr. Carter. — What does the Dowager say? 

Lady Mickleham. — I haven't mentioned it to the Dowa 
ger. 

Mr. Carter. — But surely, on such a point, her exper- 
ience 

Lady Mickleham {decisively). — She can't have any. I 
believe in her husband, because I must. But nobody else I 
You're not giving me your opinion. 



A MATTER OF DUTY. 21 

Mr. Carter {after a moment's reflection, cautiously). — 
Haven't we left out one point of view ? 

Lady Mickleham. — I've thought it over very carefully, 
both as it would affect me and as it would affect Archie. 

Mr. Carter. — Quite so. Now suppose you think how it 
would affect them. 

Lady Mickleham (a cup of tea half way to her lips) . — 
Who? 

Mr. Carter. — Why, the men. 

Lady Mickleham {putting down her cup) . — What a very 
curious idea! 

Mr. Carter. — Give it time to sink in. (He helps himself 
to another piece of toast and after a suitable tiine he leans 
back.) Let me take my own case. Shouldn't I feel rather 
awkward ? 

Lady Mickleham. — Oh, it's no good taking your case. 

Mr. Carter. — Why not mine as well as another? 

Lady Mickleham (laughing) . — Because I told him about 
you long ago. 

Mr. Carter (blandly, with a gesture of remonstrance.) — 
Why not be guided — as to the others, I mean — by your 
husband's example? 

Lady Mickleham. — Archie's example? What's that? 

Mr. Carter. — I don't know ; but you do, I suppose. 

Lady Mickleham (sitting upright). — What do you mean, 
Mr. Carter? 

Mr. Carter. — Well, has he ever told you about Maggie 
Adeane ? 

Lady Mickleham. — I never heard of her. 

Mr. Carter. — Or Lilly Courtenay? 

Lady Mickleham. — That girl ! 

Mr. Carter. — Or Alice Layton? 

Lady Mickleham. — The red-haired Layton? 



22 A MATTER 01 I >l 1Y. . 

Mix. Carter.— Or Florence Cunliffe? 

I. A3 n Mkki EHAM. — Who was she? 

Mr. CarTI R. — Or Millie Trehearne? 

Ladv MICKLEHAM. — She squints, Mr. Carter. 

Mr. Carter. — Or 

Lady Mickleham. — Stop, stop! What do you mean? 
What should he tell me ? 

Mr. Carter. — Oh, I see he hasn't. Nor, I suppose, 
about Sylvia Fenton, or that little Delano girl, or hand- 
some Miss — what was her name? 

Lady Mickleham. — Hold your tongue — and tell me what 
you mean. 

Mr. Carter (gravely.) — Lady Mickleham, if your husband 
has not thought fit to mention these ladies— and others 
whom 1 could name — to you, how could I presume ? 

Ladv Mickleham. — Do you mean to tell me that 
Archie ? 

Mr. Cartkr.— He'd only known you three years, you see. 

Ladv Mickleham. — Then it was before ? 

Mr. CARTER. — Some of them were before. 

Lady Mickleham {drawing a long breath)* — Archie will 
be in soon. 

Mr. Carter (taking his hat). It seems to me that what 
is sauce — that, 1 should say, husband and wife ought to 
stand on an equal footing in these matters. Since he has 
— no doubt for good reasons — not mentioned to you 

Lady Mickleham. — Alice Layton was a positive fright. 

Mr. Carter, — She came last, just before you, you know. 
However, as 1 was saying 

Lady Mickleham. —And that horrible Sylvia Fenton 



Mr. Carter.- Oh. he couldn't have known you long 
then. As I was saying, I should, if I were you, treat him as 

he has treated you. In my case, it seems to be too late. 



A MATTER OF DUTY. 23 

Lady Mickleham. — I'm sorry I told him that. 

Mr. Carter. — Oh, pray don't mind, it's of no conse- 
quence. As to the others 

Lady Mickleham. — I should never have thought it of 
Archie. 

Mr. Carter {with a smile). — One never knows. I 
don't suppose he thinks it of you. 

Lady Mickleham. — I won't tell him a single word. He 
may find out if he likes. Who was the last girl you men- 
tion? 

Mr. Carter. — Is it any use trying to remember all their 
names? No doubt he's forgotten them by now — just as 
you've forgotten the others. 

Lady Mickleham. — And the Dowager told me that he 
had never had an attachment before. 

Mr. Carter. — Oh, if the Dowager said that ! Of course, 
the Dowager would know ! {He starts away.) 

Lady Mickleham. — Don't be so silly, for goodness sake ! 
Are you going? 

Mr. Carter. — Certainly I am. It might annoy Archie 
to find me here when he wants to talk to you. 

Lady Mickleham. — Well, I want to talk to him. 

Mr. Carter. — Of course, you won't repeat what I've 

Lady Mickleham. — I shall find out for myself. 

Mr. Carter. — Good-by. I hope I've removed all your 
troubles ? 

Lady Mickleham. — Oh, yes, thank you. I know what to 
do now, Mr Carter. 

Mr. Carter. — Always send for me if you're in any 
trouble. I have some exp 

Lady Mickleham. — Good-by, Mr. Carter. 

Mr. Carter. — Good-by, Lady Mickleham. And remem- 
ber that Archie, like you 



-4 



\ MATTER l| i DUTY. 



LADY MiCKLEHAM.— YCS, yes; I know. Must you go? 

Mi, Carter.— I'm afraid I must. I've enjoyed our 
talk so 

I.ai.v MiCKLEHAM {wiih a slight start),— There's Archie's 
step. (Be goes out.) 

CURTAIN. 



PRIDE AGAINST PRIDE. 



Adapted from " Donna Diana," by Westland Marston. 



CHARACTERS. 

Don Diego, Duke of Barcelona. 

Don Caesar, son of a neighboring Duke, 

Don Luis, cousin to Don Caesar. 

Perin, a country?nan of Don Caesar, and secretary and con- 
fidant to Donna Diana. 

Donna Diana, daughter to Don Diego. 

Donna Laura, cousin to Donna Diana. 

A Gentleman, a Lady, and other Court Attendants, Musi- 
cians. 

Situation. — Don Cesar, Don Luis and others, come to the 
court of the Duke to win the hand of Donna Diana, 
for besides her remarkable beauty the successful suitor 
will gain the dukedom of Barcelona. To all she is 
cold and haughty, until Cesar, at the instigation of his 
countryman Perin, assumes an attitude of utmost in- 
difference to her charms. She determines to subdue 
his proud spirit. At the mask in the evening she 
manages to have Cesar for her partner, and all her 
arts are exercised to break through his cold exterior. 
Several times only the presence of Perin prevents 
Caesar's real passion from betraying him. 

25 



26 PRIDE A'.AINM PRIDE. 

The following scenes show Diana's last effort to 
subdue Cesar through jealousy, and her final rain 
struggle to resist the power of her own < 

There is but little furniture needed in the hall of the 
ducal palace where the action takes place. 

Scene I. 

Enter C/ESAR, looking back regretfully. Then enter Pi kin 

from other side, quietly. 

Cesar. — How hard is fortune. Changeful hearts like 
these 
Secure their prize. I, constant, lose my own. 

Perin {approaching). — Moody again, prince, and your 
wild bird snared ! 

Cesar. — She is indeed a wild bird. 

p ERIN . — True she sits 

And broods on that sweet egg she calls revenge ; 
But I'm mistaken, if love creep not forth, 
When the time comes for hatching. Still keep firm \ 
She yet has one resource — one stratagem — 
For which prepare yourself. 

Cesar.— What's that? 

Perin.— She'll try 

To make you jealous. Mind whate'er she feigns 
You credit not a jot. 

CiESAR. — I'm on my guard. 

Perin.— 'Tis her last chance ; but see, she comes ! 
{They look away towards the approaching princess.) 

C/esar {enchanted).— The princess ! 

How airy is each movement. Like a goddess, 
She rather floats than steps. 

Perin. Again these raptures ! 

They're dangerous. Retire till you subdue them. 



PRIDE AGAINST PRIDE. 27 

No — no — I say; you shan't give battle yet. {Perin, with 
so?ne difficulty, pushes Don C&sar off on one side.) 

Enter Donna Diana, in deep thought, stopping in the centre. 
Music is heard in the distance. 

Diana {gravely to Perin, who has withdrawn to the back 
of the stage) . — What means this absurd ditty, 
" Laura ! Laura ! " 
Nothing but " Laura ! " What insipid folly ! 

Perin. — But still it spreads. The men are wild with 
love. 
And (you've observed it, madam) love's poor dupes 
Take instantly to music. Sing they must ; 
And, as you will not let them sing — Diana, 
They choose some meaner name. 'Tis sad, but natural. 
{More music is heard.) 
Diana. — Again ! {Scornfully, as if vexed to be neglected.) 

How grand ! How overpowering ! Is it not ? 
Perin. — Yet folly has its use. A world all wisdom 
Might become tiresome. 

Diana {thoughtfully) . — Perhaps you're right, 
And, had Don Caesar mingled in this trifling, 
I scarce had blamed him. Not that I desire it. 
Thank heaven ! I'm not assailed with songs from him. 
Perin {aside) . — Joy, joy ! The bird is caught. 
{Aloud.) As for Don Caesar, 
Remember you released him from his duties. 
Diana. — I bade him go. 

Perin. — And so he went, of course. 

Diana. — Why say " of course? " Had he possessed one 
spark 
Of spirit he had stayed. 

Perin. — And disobeyed you? 



2S PRIDE AGAINST PRIDE. 

Diana. — There are some virtues higher than obedience. 
Perin [aside), — Oh, my rare system ! 

Diana. — Had he pressed his right 

To attend on me, perhaps I should have yielded. 

Pi kin. — " Perhaps ! " ay, there's the point This grave, 
cold prince 
Takes words in their strict sense. If you say, go, 
He deems not you mean stay. He sadly lacks 
Perception, and the art of reading women. {Diana lias 

an absent and melancholy look.) 
But see, the princes with their ladies come ; 
All look absurdly happy. 

Diana {looking toward them). — And Don Caesar 
Comes with them. 

Perin. — But their childish ecstasies 

Are lost on him, your highness ; be it ours 
With calm, superior eyes to note afar 
The lot of frail humanity. ( They withdraw to side.) 

Enter LUIS and Laura, another gentleman and lady, fol- 
lowed by C.ksak. 

Luis {to Laura), — Fortune has smiled on me to-day; 
would Laura 
Smile too, I'd ask no further boon of fortune. 

Laura. — The custom of the mask makes you gallant. 
{They retire a few steps, while he speaks urgently to 
her.) 
Gentleman (to lady). — Do not think 
The usage of this night extorts my homage : 
Your loveliness compels it. 

Lady. — I would fain 

Believe you ; but you flatter. These love-fires 
Shoot up too suddenly. 



PRIDE AGAINST PRIDE. 29 

Gentleman. — Be you less lovely, 

And I shall be less ardent. (He kisses her hand, then con- 
verses apart.) 
Diana (aside to Perin). — They've no words, 
It seems, to waste on me. 

Perin (to Dia?ia). — I could forgive 
All but Don Caesar. Look now how he stands, — 
Embodied apathy ! Oh, I could box 
His ears with pleasure. (Turns aside to laugh.) 

Luis. — What say you — shall we once more to the 

ball? 
Gentleman. — Agreed ; let us enjoy even to the last, 
These love-winged hours. (The gentlemen lead their ladies 
away. Cozsar stands in abstraction.) 
Diana (with affected scorn, to Perin). — They're swimming 

in a very sea of bliss ! 
Perin. — Young blood, young blood ! They're not philo- 
sophers 
Like you and me, your highness. (Ccesar seems to awaken 
from his reverie, turns to follow the others. He 
pretends to see Diana for the first time, bows respect- 
fully and continues out.) 
Diana (aside). — What, Don Caesar 

Goes too ! he sees me and he goes ! I'll try 
My last and keenest weapon — jealousy. 
(Aloud.) Call him back, Perin. 

Perin. — Prince ! prince ! 

C^sar (gravely) . — Did you call ? 

Perin. — I did, my lord. 

Cesar. — Some other time. At present 

I'm in the train of love. 

Diana (quickly). — You love? 
C;esar. — My freedom. 



30 PRinr IGAINST PRIDE. 

Diana. You mean, then, that you do not love at all. 

Nun's a mere ideal ; but love needs 
An outward object 

t'i.-AR. — Princess, pardon me, 

\- you ne'er loved, you can't tell what love n< 
I really can't permit you an opinion 
Upon that point [Perin rubs his hands with delight) 

Diana [significantly). — I may be more entitled 
To give one than you think. 

GaSar {starting involuntarily) . — You love, then? 

I )i \na [aside). — HaJ 

He started ! [Aloud,) It were rash to say I love; 
Hut I confess my former views of love 
Are somewhat shaken. 

Pi kin [aside). — Somewhat. 

C/esar [with forced composure) , — Will you deign 
To tell me why? 

Diana [assuming earnest frankness). — Yes, prince, 'tis 
only just, 
As you have shared those views. Then thus I feel: 
'Twere selfish to Oppose my private will 
Against a nation's hope, a father's prayer*. 
To these I therefore yield ; and, though mv heart 
As yet is free, since I must take a husband, 
I've ca>t my eyes upon your cousin Puis, 
Prince of Blarne. 

Pi rin [aside to Diana). — That hit was fatal. [Aside to 
I rar.) Nonsense ! ( Cozsar looks oppressed,) 

Diana. — 'Tis my resolution 
Therefore to choose him. Could I choose more fitly? 
[A pause,) Speak! love deludes not you. What's your 

opinion ? 
You do not answer. Is my choice unwise? 



PRIDE AGAINST PRIDE. 3 1 

(Aside, exultingly.) He's pale and speechless. Yes, at 
last, at last ! 
Perin (apart to Ccesar). — Shame, prince; is this your 

firmness? 
Diana. — Why, Don Caesar, 

You seem astonished. 

Cesar (recovering himself). — Seem? I am astonished. 
Diana. — At what? 

C/esar (fully self-possessed). — That there should be two 
beings so alike 
As you and I ; not only do we think 
And feel as one, but it appears our thoughts 
And feelings change together. We are twins, 
If not by birth, by nature. Tell me, princess, 
How long is't since you took this resolution? 
Diana (confused). — Only to-night. 
Cesar (eagerly). — The hour? 
Diana (surprised). — The hour ! (Peiin, also surprised, 

listens eagerly.) 
C^sar. — Was it not 

Upon the stroke of nine ? For then precisely 
I took the very self-same resolution 
And for the self-same cause. (Looking at her insinuatingly.) 

To gratify 
My father and the state I choose a bride. 

Diana (aside, pleased and softened). — He means myself. 
Why else the agitation 
He lately showed? I feel a strange relenting. 
(Aloud.) Prince, as I freely gave my confidence, 
I look for yours. Who is the happy fair? 

Caesar (tenderly) . — I fear to tell ; but thus far I may 
venture : 
She's of near kin to Barcelona's duke. 



32 PRIDE AGAINST PRIDE. 

Diana (aside, delighted)* — That's to my father! 
{Ahud.) Smiles she on your suit? 
Cesar. — She might, would you befriend it. (Ferin 

makes a gesture of annoyance.) 
Diana (aside, with suppressed exultation). — Just 
{Aloud.)— Really? 
Who can it be? 

(' .1 sar." — You have not far to seek. 

Diana {very graciously). — Speak boldly, prince ; her 

name? 
CAESAR. — Her name is Laura. 
Diana {confused). — What ! who? 
CESAR. — Your highness' cousin, Donna Laura. 
Pkrin {aside). — Jove, what a move ! It takes away one's 

breath. {Diana is struck dumb?) 
CESAR. — I feared Don Luis had secured my prize : 
But, princess, you by choosing him have rid me 
Of this great danger. Thanks, a thousand thanks ! 
Well, is my choice approved? (A pause.) You do not 

answer, 
What ails your highness? 

Diana. — Ails me? Ails me ! Nothing. 

Cesar (pretending anxiety). — You're pale ! you tremble ; 

something's wrong. 
Diana. — ( race more, 

I tell you nothing; — nothing but amazement 
That you should see a goddess in a woman 

So commonplace, so tame, so plain (Checks herself.) 

(' 1 SAR. — As Laura? 

Diana (aside). — Oh, what a wretch am I thus to miscall 
My gentle cousin. (Aloud.) Prince, you've shown discern- 
ment, 
Lama has every virtue. 



PRIDE AGAINST PRIDE. $$ 

Oesar. — So I think. 
She's modest, sweet, accomplished, winning, graceful 

Diana (interrupting). — But very commonplace. 

Cesar. — Oh, there I differ 

Diana {impatiently breaking off the talk). — Tis like you 
may be right. 'Tis an affair 
Of taste : you follow yours ; I mine. {She turns away to 
hide her agitation.) 

Cesar {to Perin). — That sounds 
Decisive. 

Perin {to Ccesar). — To it again, 
The fort is silenced. 

Caesar. — Princess, with your leave, 

I now withdraw. {He bows as if to go.) 

Diana {turning quickly). — To your sweet Laura? 

Celsar. — Yes. {He looks back, pretends to see Laura 
passing, and feigns rapture.) 
See where she passes, O enchanting vision ! 
Where all contrasting graces harmonize, 
Meekness with dignity. 

Diana {interrupting ironically). — Go on ! go on ! 
You have not done. This is the prelude only, 
The first faint note of praise before the chorus. 
What is there so bewitching in your idol? 

Cesar. — In Laura, do you ask? 

Diana {aside). — 'Tis base in me 

To wrong her thus. {She calms herself by a strong effort.) 
Prince, Laura is my friend — dear as a sister, 
Though your gross adulation roused my anger, 
I here retract each syllable I spoke 
In her dispraise. You're right. Go — go to Laura. 

Caesar. — I fly ; her sanction gained, I'll then entreat 
Your father's to confirm it. Finally, 



34 PRIM AGAINS1 PRIDE. 

To crown this night's rejoicing, I'll tell Luis 
What happiness your highness destines for him. {He bows 
gravely ami goes out. Diana stands motion: 

Perm {aside, looking after Casar). — Played to perfec- 
tion ! 

Diana. — The abyss of shame 
Is fathomed. He can love, but loves another. {She sinks 

into a chair. Perin approaches?) 
The thought is torture. (Ptrin sighs.) Perin ! 

Perin [sympathizingly). — Yes, your highness. 

Diana {without looking up). — Comes he not back? 

Perin. — Back ! After offering 

So gross an insult to you ! 

Diana. — Perin, peace ! 

I'm not myself; I'm wretched ! 

Perin. — Noble lady, 

Be calm. Did any see you thus but Perin 
He might almost conclude your highness felt — {He hesi- 
tates.) 

Diana. — Felt what? 

Perin. — If I must speak, the pangs of love. 

Duna {trembling). — The pangs of love ! 

Perin. — Be calm, I beg. Of course 

It can't be love you feel ; but then, what is it? 

Diana. — I know not. All's distraction. Now I melt 
In grief, now burn with hatred. I hate Laura ; 
I hate Don Caesar. Most of all I hate 
Myself for hating them. 

Perin. — Worse than I thought ! 

This is not love alone : 'tis jealousy I 

1 )ia\a {starting up, enraged). — Jealousy, minion ! To my 
face ! I jealous? 

Pi kin (soothingly). — Your highness ! 



PRIDE AGAINST PRIDE. 35 

Diana {with passionate excitement). — Quit my presence. 
Not a word. 
You tamper with your life. {Perin withdraws in pre- 
tended alarm. Diana, who has lost all self-control, 
stands still a moment, then covers her face with her 
hands and hurries off the stage.) 
Perin. — Poor flutterer ! 

Vain are thy struggles ; thou art in the net. {He goes out.) 

Scene II. 

Enter Diana, wrapped in thought, 

Diana. — Bound to Don Luis ! I'll redeem my pledge. 
Caesar, if thou hast guessed my love, this hour 
Shall show thee I subdued it. With unfaltering step 
I'll walk to doom, a princess, though a victim. {She retires 
to the back, and sits apart with an air of lofty ab- 
straction^) 

Enter Caesar and Perin. They advance to the front. 
Qesar. — Can I believe you, Perin? 

Perin {seeing Diana and speaking cautiously apart.) 
— Hush ; she's here. 
Yes, prince, she loves you fondly, desperately; 
She has confessed it. 

Caesar. — Let me then 

Perin. — Not yet. 

A word might ruin all. The Duke himself 
Is privy to our plot, and comes to crown it. {A flourish 

of trumpets announces the appj-oach of the Duke.) 
Enter Duke, Luis, Laura, and other gentlemen and ladies 
of the Court. 

Duke {glancing at Diana). — :No tidings, princes, more 
than these could bless 



36 PRIDE AGAINS1 PRID1 . 

A father's ear. My people and myself 

May well rejoice. Daughter, your choice is known; 

But it befits this high solemnity 

That you in form record it. Bid your bridegroom 

Now lead you forth. 

Diana (resolutely), — Don Luis. 

Luis (aside, confounded), — How! The jest 
Grows serious. She can't mean it. 

Cesar {alarmed, to Perin), — What's this, Perin? 

Laura (agitated, to Perin), — Perin ! {Others a /so show 
amazement) 

Diana. — I wait, Don Luis. 

Luis {aside). — Heavens! I'm lost. {He advances to 
Diana.) 

Perin {to Casar and Laura). — I tremble ; but the 
game's not over. 

Diana (advancing to the Duke, hand in hand with Luis). 
— Father, 
Pronounce the form. 

Duke {surprised). — Diana. 

Perin (to Casar). — Catch her eye, prince ! 

Quick, quick ! (Oesar approaches Diana.) 

Diana {to Duke). — Pronounce the form. 

Dike. — Repeat it 

As I proceed, thus — You, Diana, daughter 
0/ Don Diego, 

Diana (with a tow, constrained tone). — /, Diana, 
daughter 
Of Don Diego. 

DUKE. — Duke of Barcelona, 
And heiress to the Duchy, 

Diana. — Duke of Barcelona, 

And heiress — (She catches desars eye and stops.) 



PRIDE AGAINST PRIDE. 37 

Duke. — To the Duchy. You forget. 

Diana. — Ay. To the Duchy. 

Duke. — Here espouse Don Luis 

Diana {looking fixedly a ^ Luis). — Here — here — espouse — 

espouse (She stops short.) 

Duke. — How now, you falter. 

Diana (aside). — My doom at hand, no rescue, no es- 
cape. (She turns suddenly and observes Luis.) 
Look, look, his head is bowed ! He stands like marble. 
Is this a bridegroom's aspect? Hear me, Luis, 
If without love you claim me, you commit 
A wrong past pardon. If you would retract, 
And choose some dearer mate, declare it — answer. 
Luis. — I'm bound to you by honor. 
Diana. — Ay, by honor, 

But not by love. You do not say by love. (A pause.) 
You cannot say it. Then I dissolve the bond. (She quits 
his side.) 
Luis. — Princess, it is your pleasure, I submit. (He 

bows.) 
Duke. — Don Luis, is this true? Your choice falls else- 
where ? (Short pause. ) 
Cesar. — Duke, if I err not, yes. (He leads Laura to 

Luis and joins their hands.) 
Diana (starting). — How? Laura! 
Duke (feigning suiprise) . — Laura ! ( To Ccesar.) Prince, 
methought yourself 
Were plighted to my niece. 

Cesar. — Sir, in the mask 

Just ended, I have worn your daughter's colors. 
Duke. — But the mask over, you are free. 
Cesar. — Great duke, 
I'm not impatient for my freedom. 



3>S PRIDE A0AINS1 PRIDE. 

Diana (who has listened attentively, starting), — Ah ! 
DUKE. — How must I take you? Do you love my 

daughter? 
CLgsar (gazing tenderly at her), — I dare not say what 

might so much offend her. 
Diana (leaving the rest and speaking aside), — Am I so 
blest? 

Duke (to Ccesar), — You trifle, prince, speak, some 

one 

Diana (gravely, with downcast eyes), — The task be mine. 
Down, stubborn heart ! — Subdued 
And chastened to repentance, own thy sin, 
Cast off thy vain disguise. If e'er I wed 
I'll call him lord who vanquished pride by pride. 
Cesar (approaching her eagerly). — And who is he? 
Diana (vehemently. She raises her hand and he seizes it 
passionately), — Tyrant, why ask 1 Thyself. | 
bursts into tears.) 
Oesar (embracing her). — Tyrant ! Ah, no. 
I have but conquered, sweet, the privilege 
To be your slave for ever. 

Perin (drawing a long breath), — Safe in port ! 
I thought we should have foundered. 

CURTAIN. 



TOM AND ROXY. 



Adapted from Mark Twain's " Pudd'nhead Wilson." 



CHARACTERS. 



Tom, a very white negro, who has been well-educated and 
talks like a pure white. 

Roxy, a negro as white as a Caucasian, mother of Tom, 
but using negro dialect. 

Situation. — Roxy substituted her baby for a dead white 
baby and thei-eby got Tom reared as a gentleman. But 
his origin betrayed itself ; he became a spendthrift, 
ga??ibler and drunkard. For several years they have 
not met and each suspects the other is acquainted with 
his sec7-ets. ' Roxy has lost all and seeks an allowance. 
The scene opens in an ordinary chamber with a sofa 
in it. Tom is on the sofa with his feet in the air — to 
show his superiority to a negro. 

Scene I. 

Tom is on the sofa. Enter Roxy. 

Roxy. — My Ian', how you is growed, honey ! 'Clah to 
goodness, I wouldn't a-knowed you, Marse Tom ! 'deed I 
wouldn't ! Look at me good ; does you 'member old 
Roxy? — does you know you' old nigger mammy, honey? 
Well, now,.! kin lay down en die in peace 'ca'se I'se 
seed 

Tom. — Cut it short — cut it short ! What is it you want ? 

Roxy. — You heah dat? Jes de same old Marse Tom, 

39 



40 TOM AND ROXY. 

al'ays so gay and funnin' wid de old mammy. I 'uz jes as 
shore 

Tom. — Cut it short, I tell you, and get along ! What do 
you want? 

R.OXY (after a moment of hesitation an J despair), — Oh, 
Marse Tom, de po' ole mammy is in sich hard luck dese 
days; en she's kinder crippled in de arms en can't work, 
en if you could gimme a dollah — on'y jes one little dol 

Tom [Jumping to his feet). — A dollar ! — give you a dollar ! 
I've a notion to strangle you ! Is t/iat your errand here ? 
Clear out ! and be quick about it ! 

Roxy (going slowly backward), — Marse Tom, I nussed 
you when you was a little baby, en I raised you all by myself 
tell you was 'most a young man ; en now you is young en 
rich, en I is po' en gitt'n ole, en I come heah b'lievin' dat 
you would he'p de old mammy 'long down de little road 
dat's lef 'twix' her en de grave, en 

Tom (not so harshly). — I am not in a situation to help you 
and I'm not going to do it. 

Roxy (humbly), — Ain't you ever gwine to help me. 
Marse Tom ? 

Tom. — No ! Now go away and don't bother me any more. 

Roxy ( raising her head slowly and becoming erect*) . — You 
has said de word. You has had yo' chance, en you has 
trompled it under yo' foot. When you git another one, 
you'll git down on yo' knees en beg for it ! 

Tom (with bluster), — You'll give me a chance— you ! 
Perhaps I'd better get down on my knees now I lint in 
case I don't — just for argument's sake — what's goinu to 
happen, pray? 

Roxy. — Dis is what is gwine to happen. I's gwine as 
straight to yo' uncle as 1 kin walk, en tell him every las' 
thing I knows "bout you. 

Tom (seared — then with sickly smile). —Well, well, Roxy 



TOM AND ROXY. 4 1 

dear, old friends like you and me mustn't quarrel. Here's 
your dollar — now tell me what you know. {Holding out a 
dollar bill.') 

Roxy. — What does I know? I'll tell you what I knows. 
I knows enough to bu'st dat will to flinders — en more, 
mind you, more ? 

Tom {aghast). — More? What do you call more ? Where's 
there any room for more? 

Roxy {with a mocking laugh) . — Yes ! — oh, I reckon ! 
Co'se you'd like to know — wid yo' po' little ole rag dollah. 
What you reckon I's gwine to tell you for? — you ain't got 
no money. I's gwine to tell yo' uncle — en I'll do it dis 
minute, too — he'll gimme five dollahs for de news, en 
mighty glad, too. {She jtarts away.) 

Tom (seizing her skirts) . — Wait ! Wait ! 

Roxy (turning). — Look-a-heah, what 'uz it I tole you? 

Tom. — You — you — I don't remember anything. — What 
was it you told me? 

Roxy. — I tole you dat de next time I give you a chance 
you'd git down on yo' knees en beg for it. 

Tom (stupefied). — Oh, Roxy, you wouldn't require your 
young master to do such a horrible thing. You can't mean it. 

Roxy. — I'll let you know mighty quick whether I mean 
it or not ! You call me names when I comes here po' en 
ornery en 'umble, to praise you for bein growed up so fine 
en handsome, en tell you how I used to nuss you en tend 
you en watch you when you 'uz sick en hadn't no mother 
but me in de whole worl', en beg you to give de po' ole 
nigger a dollah for to git her som'n' to eat, en you call me 
names — names. Yassir, I give you jes one chance mo', 
and dat's noiu, en it las' on'y a half a second — you hear? 

Tom (on his knees). — You see I'm begging, and it's 
honest begging, too ! Now tell me, Roxy, tell me. 



4- POM AND ROXY. 

R.OXY [after a moment of deep satisfaction). — Fine, nice 
young white gen'l'man kneelin' down to a nigger-wench ! 

['s wanted to see dat jes once befo 1 I's (ailed. Now, 
C.abr'el, Mow de hawn. I's ready. . . (lit up! 

TOM {rising).- Now, Row, don't punish me any more. 
I deserved what [*ve got, but 1".- good and let me off with 
that. Don't go to uncle. Tell me — I'll give you the five 
dollars. 

R.OXY. — Yes, I bet you will: en you won't stop dah, 
nuther. But I ain't gwine to tell you heah — 

TOM.— Good gracious, no ! 

Row. — [s you 'feared o' de ha'nted house? 

Tom. — N — no. 

Row. — Well, den, you come to de ha'nted house 'bout 
ten or 'leven to-night, en climb up de ladder, 'ca'se de 
sta'r- steps is broke down, en you'll find me. I's a-roostin' 
in de ha'nted house 'ca'se I can't 'ford to roos' nowhers' 
else. {Starts towards the door, but stops.) Gimme de 
dollah bill. {Scrutinizes it.) H'm — like enough de bank's 
bu'sted. (She goes out.) 

Tom {opens the door for her, then flings himself on the 
sofa, sways back and forth and moans). — I've knelt to a 
nigger-wench ! I thought I had struck the deepest depths 
of degradation before, but oh, dear, it was nothing to this 

Well, there is one consolation, such as it is — I've 

struck bottom this time ; nothing lower. 

Scene II. 

A room in the second story of a haunted house. Straw is 
in one corner ; a little cheap clothing hangs up at one 
side ; soiip and candle boxes serve as seats. A lantern 
lights the room. Enter ROXV and then Tom. 



TOM AND ROXY. 43 

Roxy. — Now den, I'll tell you straight off, en I'll begin 
to k'leck de money later on; I ain't in no hurry. What 
does you reckon I's going to tell you ? 

Tom. — Well, you — you — oh, Roxy, don't make it too 
hard for me ! Come right out and tell me you've found out 
somehow what a shape I'm in on account of dissipation 
and foolishness. 

Roxy. — Disposition en foolishness ! No, sir, dat ain't it. 
Dat jist ain't nothin' at all, 'longside o' what / knows, 

Tom. — Why, Roxy, what do you mean? 

Roxy (rising). — I mean dis— en it's de Lord's truth, 
you ain't no more kin to ole Marse Driscoll den I is ! — 
dats what I mean ! 

Tom.— What ! 

Roxy. — Yassir, en dat ain't all ! you's a nigger/ — bawn 
a nigger en a slave / — en you's a nigger en a slave dis 
minute ; en if I opens my mouf ole Marse Driscoll '11 sell 
you- down de river befo' you is two days older den what 
you is now ! 

Tom. — It's a thundering lie, you miserable old blather- 
skite ! 

Roxy. — It ain't no lie nuther. It's jes de truth, en 
nothin' but de truth, so he'p me. Yassir — you's my son 

Tom. — You devil ! 

Roxy. — En dat po' boy dat you's be'n a-kickin' en a- 
cuffin' to-day is Percy DriscolPs son en yo' marster 

Tom.— You beast ! 

Roxy. — En his name's Tom Driscoll, en yo' name's Valet 
de Chambers, en you ain't got no fambly name, beca'se 
niggers don't have em ! (Tom springs up and seizes a 
billet of wood!) Set down, you pup ! Does you think you 
kin skyer me ? It ain't in you, nor de likes of you. I reckon 
you'd shoot me in de back, maybe if you got a chance, for 



4 4 POM AND ROXY. 

dat's jist yo' style — / knows you, throo en throo — but I 
don't mind gitt'n killed, beca'se all dis is down in writin' 
en it's in safe hands, too, en de man dat's got it k\ 
whah to look for de right man when I gits killed. Oh, 
bless yo' soul, if you puts yo' mother for as big a fool as 
you is, you's pow'ful mistaken, I kin tell you ! Now den, 
you set still en behave yo'self ; en don't you git up ag'in 
till I tell you ! 

Tom {nervously). — The whole thing is moonshine; now 
then go ahead, and do your worst : I'm done with \ mi. ( Roxy 
silently takes the lantern and sta/ts towards the a 
Come back, come back ! I didn't mean it, Roxy; 1 take 
it all back, and I'll never say it again ! Please come back, 
Roxy ! 

Roxy {gravely). — Dat's one thing you's got to stop, 
Valet de Chambers. You can't call me Roxy, same as if 
you was my equal, children don't speak to dey mammies 
like dat. You'll call me ma or mammy, dat's what you'll 
call me — least ways when dey ain't nobody aroun'. Say it ! 

Tom {with a struggle). — Mammy ! 

Roxy. — Dat's all right. Don't you ever forget it ag'in, 
if you knows what's good for you. Now i\lu, you has said 
you wouldn't ever call it lies en moonshine ag'in. 1*11 
tell you dis for a warnin' : if you ever does say it ag'in. it's 
de las' time you'll ever say it to me ; I'll tramp as straight 
to de judge as 1 kin walk, en tell him who you is, en / 
it. Does you b'lieve me when 1 says dat? 

Tom {with a groan). — Oh, I more than believe it; I 
know it. 

Roxy {after sitting down). — Now den. Chambers, wre'a 
gwine to talk business, en dey ain't gwine to be no' mo' fool- 
ishness. In de fust place, you gits fifty dollahs a month; 
you's gwine to h in' over hah of it to yo 1 ma. Plank it out ! 



TOM AND ROXY. 45 

Tom. — There's all I have in the world, {hands her six 
dollars.) But I promise to start fair on next month's pen- 
sion. 

Roxy. — Chambers, how much is you in debt? 

Tom {with a shudder). — Nearly three hundred dollars. 

Roxy. — How is you gwine to pay it? 

Tom {groaning) . — Oh, I don't know ; don't ask me such 
awful questions. 

Roxy. — Yes, I aint gwine to be put off. I'm gwine to 
know. 

Tom. — Well — eh — I've been about in disguise, and I've 
gathered small valuables from several houses ; in fact, two 
weeks ago I made a good raid when folks thought I was in 
St. Louis. Still I doubt if I've sent away enough stuff to 
realize the amount, and the town is too excited to make 
another venture just yet. 

Roxy. — Dat's just right en I'se gwine to help you. 

Tom. — If you'd only leave the town, I should feel better 
and safer, because 

Roxy. — I aint troubled 'bout whah I'm livin' so' sn I git 
my money reg'lar. 

Tom {with a sigh of relief) . — Oh ! You'll get it all 
right. 

Roxy. — I don't hate you so much now, but I've hated 
you a many a year — and anybody would. Didn't I change 
you off, en give you a goodfambly en a good name en made 
you a white gen'l'man en rich, wid store clothes on — en 
what did I git for it? You despised me all de time, en was 
al'ays sayin' mean hard things to me befo' folks, en wouldn't 
ever let me forgit I's a nigger — en — en — {She falls to sob- 
bing and breaks down.) 

Tom. — But you know I didn't know you were my mother ; 
and besides 



^6 [OM AND ROXY. 

Koxv . — Well, nemmine 'bout dat, now; let it go. ['a 
swine to fo'igt it. (S/ie rises and Tom also rises and hur- 
ries awaj with some show o/respeet) En don't ever make 
me remember it ag'in or you'll be sorry, / tell you. 

CURTAIN. 



A DISASTROUS ANNOUNCEMENT. 



Adapted from " David Copperfield," by Dickens. 



CHARACTERS. 

Dora, a beautiful blonde young lady, with curly hair. 
Miss Julia Mills, a dark-complexioned young lady, some- 
what older than Dora. 
David, a young man very much in love with Dora. 
Jip, a lap-dog belonging to Dora. 

Situation. — David is but recently engaged to Dora, zuho 
stays with a friend, Julia Mills {just disappointed in 
love). David tries to explain to Dora his sudden loss 
of fortune with the following disastrous result. 

David is waiting when Dora appears with Jip in her arms. 
Dora, drops Jip, greets her lover. 

David. — My pretty little Dora is well and happy? 

Dora. — Oh, yes, yes ! 

David. — Dora, dear, could you love a beggar? 

Dora (stares at him a moment and then sits and pouts) . — 
How can you ask me anything so foolish ? Love a beggar ? 

David. — Dora, my own dearest, 1 am a beggar ! 

Dora (slapping his hand). — How can you be such a 
silly thing as to sit there, telling such stories? I'll make 
Jip bite you ! 

47 



48 A DISAS1 R( HJS INNOUNC1 mini. 

David. — Dora, my own life, I am your ruined David ! 

Dora. — I declare I'll make Jip bite you, if you an 

ridiculous. (Looks at David and sees his face so serious 

that she begins to cry.) 

David {falling on his knees before her and caressing her)* 

— Don't, Dora, don't ! You'll break my heart. 

Dora.— Oh, dear ! Oh, dear ! Oh, I am so frightened ! 

David. — I didn't mean to frighten you, Dora. 

Dora. — Where is Julia? lake me to Julia Mills. 

David. — Don't take on so, Dora. Won't you look at 
me? 

Dora.— Julia ! Julia ! (To David.) Go away ! 

David. — Give me just one glance. (She looks at him 
reluctantly.) You know I love you, oh, so dearly, de 
but I feel it right to release you from our engagement, now, 
because I am poor. Oh, I could never bear to lose 
I have no fear of poverty, if you have none, dearest, for 
your dear face nerves my arm and inspires my heart. Oh, 
I am working now with a courage none but lovers know ; 
but I have begun to be practical and to look into the future. 
You know a crust well-earned is sweeter far than a feast 
inherited. (Dora has gradually become interested and is 
clinging to his hand.) Is your heart mine still, dear Dora? 

Dora.— Oh, yes ! Oh, yes, it's all yours. Oh, don't be 
dreadful ! 

David. — I, dreadful? To Dora? 

Dora (drawing closer). — Don't talk about being poor, 
and working hard ! Oh, don't, don't ! 

David.— My dearest love, the crust well-earned 

Dora. — Oh, ves ; but I don't want to hear any more 
about crusts! And Jip must have a mutton-chop every 
day at twelve, or he'll die ! 

David.— Certainly, dearest, Jip shall have his mutton- 



A DISASTROUS ANNOUNCEMENT. 49 

chop just as regularly as usual, but let me draw a picture 
of our frugal home made independent by my labor. My 
aunt shall have her room upstairs. — I am not dreadful now 5 
Dora? 

Dora. — Oh, no, no ! But I hope your aunt will keep in 
her own room a good deal ! And I hope she's not a scold- 
ing old thing ! 

David (after a pause in which he seems to be thinking 
hard). — My own? May I mention something? 

Dora (coaxingly). — Oh, please, don't be practical. — Be- 
cause it frightens me so ! 

David. — Sweetheart, there is nothing to alarm you in 
all this. I want you to think of it quite differently. I 
want to make it nerve you, and inspire you, Dora. 

Dora. — Oh, but that's sc shocking ! 

David. — My love, no. Perseverance and strength of 
character will enable us to bear much worse things. 

Dora {shaking her curls) . — But I haven't got any strength 
at all. Have I, Jip ? Oh, do kiss Jip, and be agreeable ! 
{She holds the dog up for both to kiss on each side of the 
centre of the nose and both laugh gayly.) 

David (after another pause). — But Dora, my beloved, I 
was going to mention something. 

Dora (holding up her hands in childlike prayer). — Oh, 
don't be dreadful any more ! 

David. — Indeed, 1 am not going to be, my darling ! 
But, Dora, my love, if you will sometimes think — not 
despondingly, you know ; far from that ! — but if you will 
sometimes think — just to encourage yourself — that you are 
engaged to a poor man 

Dora.— Don't, don't ! Pray, don't ! It's so very dread- 
ful ! 

David. — My soul, not at all ! If you will sometimes 
4 



50 \ DISASTR01 S ANNO* M l KENT. 

think of that, and look about now and then at your papa's 
housekeeping, and endeavor to acquire a little habit — of 
accounts, for instance 

Dora.— Oh! (A sob.) Oh! 

David. — It would be so useful to us afterwards. And if 
you would promise to read a little — a little cookery-book 
that I would send you, it would be so excellent for both of 
us. For our path in life, my Dora, {eloquently) is stormy 
and rugged now, and it rests with us to smooth it. We 
must fight our way onward. We must be brave. There 
are obstacles to be met, and we must meet and crush 
them 

Dora {shrieks). — Oh! You frighten me so! Julia ! 
Julia Mills'. Where are you? (David approaches.) Go 
away, please. ( He walks distractedly about the room and 
s lie faints.) 

David (as she falls back on the sofa). — Oh ! I have 
killed her this time. (Sprinkles water on her faee, then 
falls on his knees and plucks his hair.) Remorseless brute ! 
Ruthless beast ! — Forgive me, forgive me ! Oh. but look 
up at me ! ( Goes to workbox for smelling-bottle hut gets 
ivory needle-case instead and drops needles all over Dora. 
He shakes his fists at the barking dog and appears f ran tie.) 

Enter Miss Mn i ->. 

Mi» MILLS (assists Dora). Who has done this? 

David. — /, Miss Mills! / have done it! Behold the 
destroyer ! 

Miss Mills. — Is this a quarrel? 

Dora (revives; embraces Miss Milts). — Oh! he i^ ;i 
poor laborer ! — (Seizes David's hand). You must let me 
give you all my money to keep, will you? — Oh ! Julia. 
(Sobs.) 



A DISASTROUS ANNOUNCEMENT. 5 I 

Miss Mills. — There, dear, every true man is a laborer. 
Run upstairs and dry your eyes. Don't be frightened at 
anything he has said. Tea will be ready presently. (Dora 
goes out.) 

David {who has been walking about.) — Miss Mills, I 
was trying to explain to Dora the sudden flight of my for- 
tune, that I am now a poor man and must toil for my daily 
bread. 

Miss Mills. — The Cottage of Content is better than the 
Palace of Cold Splendor. Where love is, all is. 

David. — How true it is ! Who should know it better 
than I, who love Dora with a love that never mortal has ex- 
perienced yet. 

Miss Mills (with despondency) . — It is well indeed for 
some hearts if this is so. 

David. — Oh, I beg to say that I referred only to mortals 
of the masculine gender. Miss Mills, I was anxious to 
have Dora observe the housekeeping, the accounts, and 
study a cook-book. Has my suggestion to her any prac- 
tical merit? 

Miss Mills.— I will be plain with you. Mental suffering 
and trial supply, in some natures, the place of years, and 
I will be as plain with you as if I were a Lady Abbess. — 
No. The suggestion is not appropriate to our Dora. Our 
dearest Dora is a favorite child of nature. She is a thing 
of light and airiness and joy. I am free to confess that if 

it could be done, it might be well, but (shakes he?- 

head.) 

David. — Then, Miss Mills, for Dora's sake, if you have 
the opportunity to lure her attention to such preparations 
for an earnest life, will you avail yourself of it? 

Miss Mills. — Oh, yes, gladly. 

David. — Might I ask you, too, to take charge of the 



52 A DISASTROUS ANNOUNCEMENT. 

cook-book? And if you could insinuate it upon O 
acceptance without frightening her you would be doing me 
a crowning service. 

MlSS MILLS. — I accept that trust, too; but 1 am notour 
sanguine. {Dora now appears at the side and comet 
to David.) Let us go out to tea. ( They go out.) 



MISS JUDITH MACAN. 



Adapted from " Charles O'Malley, the Irish Dragoon," hy Charles Lever. 



CHARACTERS. 

Sir George Dash wood, a general in the British army, an 
elderly man, tall and commanding. 

Fred. Power, captain of Dragoons, a younger man, bold 
and free, in uniform. 

Charles O'Malley, a handsome young man. 

Frank Webher, college chum ^/"O'Malley, a great trickster, 
impersonating Miss Judith Macan. 

Miss Lucy Dashwood, a beautiful young lady, daughter to 
Sir George. 

An Old Nobleman, a Young Officer, a Servant, and Guests. 

Situation. — Sir George Dashwood and his daughter give a 
ball, to which O'Malley is invited. Although Frank 
Webber, O'Malley's chum, and a great practical 
joker, has no invitation and scarcely has a speaking 
acquaintance with the Dashwoods ; he lays a wager of 
two ponies with Power that he will be present and kiss 
Miss Lucy. 

Sir George is fearless in war, but at home he lives 
in dread of his deceased wife's sister, Miss Judith 
Macan, whom he has not seen. She lives far in the 
country. 

53 



54 MISS JUDITH MA( AN. 

The following dialogue is the scene at the hall in 
which Webber impersonates Miss Macan, and wins 
his bet The scenes occur in the drawing-room 
George, in Dublin. A sofa is on one side. There 
are but few pieces of furniture in the room. 

Miss Judith Mac w must be dressed in outlandish 

costume ; she talks loudly, with a country accent. 

O'Malley has fust finished a quadrille with Miss 

J -rev. 

Scene I. 
Enter Miss Lucy and O'Malley, approaching the sofa on 

tiic opposite side of the platform, when Sir GEORGE 
enters hurriedly in great excitement. 

Lucy. — Dear papa, has anything occurred? Pray, what 
is it? 

Sir George (with a faint smile). — Nothing very serious, 
my dear, that I should alarm you in this way; but certainly 
a more disagreeable mischance could scarcely occur. 

I. iw. — Do tell me; what can it be? 

Sir GEORGE. — Read this. {//e presents a dirty-looking 
note. ) 

\w\ {she glances at the note rapidly, after unfolding it. 
and then hursts into laughter) . — Why , really, papa, 1 do 
not see why this should put you out much alter all. Aunt 
may be somewhat of a character, as her Bote evinces, but 
after a lew days 

Sir George. — Nonsense, child ; there is nothing in this 

world I have such a dread of as that confounded woman — 
and to come at such a turn- ! 

I.i cy. When dot's she speak of paying her visit? 
Sir George.— I knew you had not read the note; she's 
coming here to-night, is on hei way this instant, perhaps. 

What i^ to be done? It she for< es her way m here, I .shall 



MISS JUDITH MACAN. 55 

go deranged outright. O'Malley, my boy, read this note, 
and you will not feel surprised if I appear in the humor 
you see me. 

O'Malley (he takes note from Lucy) . — " Dear Brother, — 
When this reaches your hand I'll not be far off. — I am on 
my way up to town, to be under Dr. Dease for the ould 
complaint. Crowley mistakes my case entirely, he says, it's 
nothing but religion and wind. Father Magrath, who un- 
derstands a good deal about females, thinks otherwise — but 
God knows who's right. Expect me to tea, and with love 
to Lucy, believe me yours, in haste, Judith Macan. Let 
the sheets be well aired in my room ; and if you have a 
spare bed perhaps we could prevail upon Father Magrath 
to stop too." (He laughs heartily and so does Lucy.) 

Sir George. — I say, Lucy, there's only one thing to be 
done ; if this horrid woman does arrive, let her be shown 
to her room, and for the few days of her stay in town we'll 
neither see nor be seen by any one. (He turns away.) 

Enter Servant with Webber, disguised as Miss Judith 
Macan ; also Power and others. 

Servant. — Miss Macan. (A look of horror spreads over 
Sir George's face, while Lucy shrinks back.) 

Sir George (stepping forward and taking her hand af- 
fectionately) . — Judith, I welcome you to Dublin. 

Webber (throwing his arms about Sir George's neck and 
giving him a hearty smack). — Where's Lucy, brother? Let 
me embrace my little darling. There she is, I'm sure ; 
kiss me, my honey. (He kisses her very loudly. She leads 
hi?n to the sofa where they sit and converse.) 

Power (touching Sir George lightly and speaking in a 
a low voice) . — Sir George, would it be too much — an in- 
troduction to Miss Macan? 



56 ICBS JUDITH M \cw. 

Sir George.— Certainly, I'll introduce you, if you d< 
it. {He approaches the sofa. The occupants rise,) Miss 
M.uan, I present Captain Power. 

WEBBER. — I'm right glad to see you. Captain Power. 
( He holds out his hand* ) 

P« >wi R ( he seizes hand and carries it to /lis Zips). — I hope 
you will do me the favor to dance next Si t with me, Miss 
Macau. 

Webber. — Really, Captain, it's very polite of you; but 

you must excuse me ; 1 was never anything great in 
quadrilles ; but if a reel or a jig 

Lucy. — Oh, dear, aunt, don't think of it, I beg of you. 

Power.— Then, I'm certain you waltz? 

Webber {with resentment), — What do you take me for, 
young man? I hope I know better. I wish Father 
Magrath heard you ask me that question, and for all your 
lace jacket 

Lucy. — Dearest aunt, Captain Power didn't mean to 
offend you ; I'm certain he 

Webber. — Well, why did he dare to — (sobs) — did he see 
anything light about me, that he — (more sobs), oh, dear. 
oh, dear ! Is it for this I came up from my little peaceful 
place in the West? (Sobs.) General, George, dear Lucy, 
my love, I'm taken bad. Oh, dear, oh, dear — is there any 
whiskey negus? (Lucy and Power Jiclp Webber off, while 
others go after a restorative.) 

Scene II. 

Sir George and an old nobleman are conversing as O'Mai - 

i i v approaches. He waits a moment. 

Nobleman. — True, upon my honor, Sir George, 1 saw it 
myself, and she did it just as dexterously as the oldest 
blackleg in Paris. 



MISS JUDITH MACAN. 57 

Sir George. — Why, you don't mean to say that she 
cheated ? 

Nobleman. — Yes, but I do though — turned the ace every 
time. Lady Herbert said to me, " Very extraordinary it 
is — four by honors again." So I looked and then I per- 
ceived it — a very old trick it is ; but she did it beautifully. 
What's her name ? 

Enter Power and Webber {alias Miss Macan), conversing. 

Sir George {seeing his supposed sister approaching and 
becojning confused). — Some western name, I forget it. 

Nobleman. — Clever old woman, very. {Sir George and 
the nobleman retire through door on opposite side. Webber 
goes out again through the door he entered, leaving O'Malley 
atid Power on platform.) 

Power. — I say, Charley, it is capital fun — never met 
anything equal to her. But the poor general never will live 
through it, and I am certain of ten days' arrest for this 
night's proceeding. 

O'Malley. — Any news of Webber? 

Power. — Oh, yes, I fancy I can tell something of him, 
for I heard of some one presenting himself, and being 
refused entrance. So Master Frank Webber has lost his 
money. {O'Malley goes out as Sir George did and Webber 
re-enters. To Webber) . — Upon my soul, you're an angel, 
a regular angel; I never saw a woman suit my fancy 
before. 

Webber. — Oh, behave now, Father Magrath says 

Power. — Who's he? 

Webber. — The priest, no less. 

Power. — Oh ! confound him. 

Webber. — Confound Father Magrath, young man? 

Power. — Well, then, Judy, don't be angry. I only meant 



5 3 MISS II I'll H MA< AN. 

that b dragoon knows rather mure ol these matters than a 
priest 

\\ i BBER.- Well, now. I'm not SO Mire of that, But any- 
how I'd have yon to remember it ain't a Widow Malone 

von have beside yon. 

Power.— Never heard of the lady. 

VEBBER.— Sure, it's a son-— poor creature— it's a song 
they made about her in the North Cork. 

Power.— I wish to Heaven you'd sin- it. 

\Vi, 1; i;i R ._\\"hat will you give me then it I do? 

Power.— Anything— everything— -my heart, my life. 
Webbi R.— 1 wouldn't give a trauneen for all of them. 
Give me that old green ring on your finger, then. 

p, ,wkr.— It's yours. ( He places it gracefully on II ebb 
finger.) And now for your promise. 

\\, bber.— Maybe, my brother might not like it. 
POWER.— He'd be delighted. He dotes on music. 
Wi BBER. — l>oes he, now? 
Power.- Upon my honor, he does. 
Webber.— Well, mind you get up a good chorus, for the 
song has one, and here it is. 

Power (he goes to door and raps).— Miss Macau's song ! 
Miss Macan's song. | All except Sir George enter and call 
out, " Miss Macon's song. 

\\ , BBER.*— "The Widow Maloiu . ' 

Did ye hear of the Widow Malone 

Ohone ! 
Who lived in the town of Athlone, 

Alone ! 
Oh ! she melted the hearts 
Of the swains in them parts, 

* Ifnecessar) this may be recited. The whole company should 
give the short lines of two syllables. 



MISS JUDITH MACAN. 59 

So lovely the Widow Malone 

Ohone ! 

Of lovers she had a full score, 

Or more ! 
And fortunes they all had galore 

In store. 
From the minister down 
To the clerk of the crown, 
All were courting the Widow Malone 

Ohone ! 
All were courting the Widow Malone. 

But so modest was Mrs. Malone, 

T'was known 
No one ever could see her alone, 

Ohone ! 
Let them ogle and sigh, 
They could ne'er catch her eye, 
So bashful the Widow Malone 

Ohone ! 
So bashful the Widow Malone. 

Till one Mister O'Brien from Clare, 

How quare? 
It's little for blushin' they care 

Down there ; 
Put his arm round her waist, 
Gave ten kisses, at laste, 
"Oh," says he, "you're my Molly Malone,] 

My own; " 
" Oh," says he, " you're my Molly Malone." 

And the widow they all thought so shy, 

My eye ! 



6o MISS JUDITH MACAN. 

Ne'er thought of a simper or sigh, 

For why? 
But " Lucius," says she, 
"Since you've made now so free, 
You may marry your Mary M alone," 

Ohone! 
"You may marry your Mary Malone." 

There's a moral contained in my song, 

Not wrong; 

And one comfort it's not very long, 

But strong ; 

If for widows you die, 

Lam to kiss, not to sigh ; 

For they're all like sweet Mistress Malone, 

( )hone ' 

Oh, they're all like sweet Mistress Malone. 

All. — Widow Malone, ohone ! 
Widow Malone, ohone ! 

Sir George eriters and while almost nil turn toward hint, 
and then x ( > out, the following short dialogue takes 
place. 

Power. — I insist on a copy of the "Widow," Miss 
Macau ! 

Webber. — To be sun-; give me a call to-morrow; let 

me see, about two ; , leather Magrath won't be at home. 

Power. — Where, pray, may 1 pay my respects? 

Webber. — Number 22, South Anne Street — very res] 
able lodgings. I'll write the address in your pocket book. 
{Power produces catd and n pencil Webber writes n 
few lines.) There, now. don't rend it lure before the 



MISS JUDITH MACAN. 6 1 

people. They'll think it mighty indelicate in me to make 
an appointment. {Power puts card in his pocket.) 

Enter Servant. 

Servant. — Carriage for Miss Macan. (Sir George hur- 
ries over to her and helps her to the carriage. Servant 
goes out.) 

Power (to a young officer standing in a group near by). — 
There is a conquest for you. Doubt it who will, she has 
invited me to call on her to-morrow — written her address 
on my card — told me the hour when she is certain of being 
alone. See here ! (He pulls out the card and hands it to 
the officer.) 

Officer. — So, this isn't it, Power. 

Power. — To be sure it is, man. Anne street is devilish 
seedy ; but that's the quarter. 

Officer. — Why, confound it, man, there's not a word of 
that here. 

Power. — Read it out. Proclaim my victory. 

Officer. — " Dear P. — Please pay to my credit, and soon, 
mark ye, the two ponies lost this evening. I have done 
myself the pleasure of enjoying your ball, kissed the lady, 
quizzed the papa, and walked into the cunning Fred Power. 

Yours, Frank Webber. 

The Widow Malone, ohone, is at your service." 

All laugh. Lucy blushes and turns away. Power stamps 
and raves. 

CURTAIN. 



HELEN AND MODUS. 



Adapted from " The Hunchback," by Sheridan Knuwlcs. 



I II \K VOTERS. 

Helen, a young lady, vivacious and beautiful* 

Modus, her cousin, fresh from college and bashful 

Situation. — Helen loves Modus and perceives that he loves 
her. She has fried in rain to make him speak* At 
last she decides to tantalize him by her boldness until 
he declares his love. 

These scenes take place about two and a half ccnturu t 
ago, in a castle which Hki.i \, MODUS, and others are 

visiting under the management of Master Walter. 

fust befote the second scene Master Walter has 

informed HELEN that a husband has ahead) l>ccn 
chosen for her. The same setting may answi 
both scenes, or the first max he in a parlor and the 
second in a wide corridor. In the first scene he must 
wear an old-fashioned ruff about his neck. In the 
second scene all chairs should he removed from the 
stage. 

Scene I. 
Enter I li [JEN, listlessly. 
lli i i \. — [' m wear) wandering from room .o room ; 

A ( astle after all is but a house 

62 



HELEN AND MODUS. 63 

The dullest one when lacking company. 

Were I at home I could be company 

Unto myself. 

I'll go to bed and sleep. No — I'll stay up 

And plague my cousin into making love. 

For, that he loves me, shrewdly I suspect. 

How dull is he that hath not sense to see 

What lies before him, and he'd like to find. 

I'll change my treatment of him — cross him, where 

Before I used to humor him. He comes, 

Poring upon a book. 

Enter Modus, slowly, with his eyes on his open book. 
What's that you read ? 

Modus. — Latin, sweet cousin. 

Helen. — 'Tis a naughty tongue 

I fear, and teaches men to lie. 

Modus. — To lie ! 

Helen. — You study it. You call your cousin sweet, 
And treat her as you would a crab. 
You construe Latin, and can't construe that? 

Modus. — I never studied women. 

Helen. — No ; nor men. 

Else would you better know their ways ; nor read 
In presence of a lady. {Strikes the book from his hand.) 

Modus. — Right, you say 

And well you served me, cousin, so to strike 
The volume from my hand. I own my fault. 
So please you, may I pick it up again? 
I'll put it in my pocket. 

Helen. — Pick it up. 

He fears me as I were his grandmother. 
What is the book? 

Modus. — 'Tis Ovid's Art of Love. 



64 in i 1 N \M» MODUS. 

Helen. — That Ovid was a fool ! 

Moms. — In what? 

Helen. — In that : 

To call that thing an art which art is none. 

Modus.- — And is not love an art? 

Helen. — Are you a fool 

As well as Ovid ? Love an art ! No art 
But taketh time and pains to learn. Love comes 
With neither. Is't to hoard such grain as that 
You went to college ? Better stay at home 
And study homely English. 

Modus. — Nay, you know not 

The argument. 

Helen. — I don't? I know it better 
Than ever Ovid did ! 
Suppose a lady were in love with thee, 
Could'st thou, by Ovid, cousin, find it out? 
Could'st find it out, wast thou in love thyself? 
Could Ovid, cousin, teach thee to make love? 
I could, that never read him. You begin 
With melancholy ; then to sadness ; then 
To sickness ; then to dying — but not die ! 
She would not let thee, were she of my mind ; 
She'd take compassion on thee. Then for hope; 
From hope to confidence ; from confidence 
To boldness— then you speak; at first entreat ; 
Then urge ; then flout ; then argue ; then enforce ; 
Make prisoner of her hand ; besiege her waist ; 
Threaten her lips with storming ; keep thy word 
And carry her! My sampler 'gainst thy Ovid! (She 

crosses in front of him. Ho stands like <r post.) 
Why cousin, are you frightened, that you stand 
As you were stricken dumb? The case is clear 



HELEN AND MODUS. 65 

You are no soldier. You'll ne'er win a battle, 
You care too much for blows ! 

Modus. — You wrong me there. 
At school I was the champion of my form 
And since I went to college 

Helen. — That for college ! {She crosses again and 
snaps her fingers.) 

Modus. — Nay, hear me ! 

Helen. — Well ? What since you went to college ? (He 
hesitates.') 
What since you went to college? Was there not 
One Quentin Halworth there? You know there was, 
And that he was your master. 

Modus {indignantly). — He my master ! 

Thrice was he worsted by me. 

Helen. — Still was he 

1 

Your master. 

Modus. — He allowed I had the best ! 
Allowed it, mark me ! Nor to me alone, 
But twenty I could name. 

Helen. — And mastered you 

At last ! Confess it, cousin, 'tis the truth. 
A proctor's daughter {he turns away to think) you did both 

affect — 
Look at me and deny it ! Of the twain 
She more affected you ; — I've caught you now. 
An opportunity she gave you, sir — 
Deny it if you can ! — but though to others, 
When you discoursed of her you were a flame, 
To her you were a wick that would not light, 
Though held in the very fire ! And so he won her — 
Won her, because he wooed her like a man, 
For all your cuffings, cuffing you again 



66 HELEN AND MODUS. 

With most usurious interest. Now, sir, 
Protest that you are valiant ! 

MODUS. — Cousin Helen ! 

Helen. — Well, sir? 

MODUS. — The tale is all a forgery! 

HELEN. — A forgery ! 

Modus. — From first to last : ne'er spoke I 

To a proctor's daughter while I was at college. 

HELEN. — It was a scrivener's, then — or somebody's. 
But what concerns it whose? Enough, you loved her, 
And, shame upon you, let another take her ! 

Modus. — Cousin, I tell you, if you'll only hear me, 
I loved no woman while I was at college — (He catches 

hi in self.) 
Save one, and her I fancied ere I went there. 

Helen (to herself). — Indeed ! Now I'll retreat, if he's 
advancing. 
Comes he not on ! Oh, what a stock's the man ! — 
Well, cousin? 

Modus {blankly'). — Well? What more would'st have me 
say ? 
I think I've said enough. 

Hi i EN. — And so think I. 

I did but jest with you. You are not angry? 
Shake hands ! (He coldly touches her fingers.) Why, 
cousin, do you squeeze me so? 

Modus (letting her go). — 1 swear 1 squeezed you not! 

Helen. — You did not? 

Modus. — No, 

I'll die if I did ! 

Hiii \. — Why, then you did not, cousin ■ 

So let's shake hands again- -{He takes her hand as before.) 
Oh, go, and now 



HELEN AND MODUS. 67 

Read Ovid ! Cousin, will you tell me one thing : 
Wore lovers ruffs in Master Ovid's time? 
Behoved him teach them, then, to put them on : 
And that you have to learn. Hold up your head. 
Why, cousin, how you blush. Plague on the ruff ! 
I cannot give't a set. You're blushing still ! 
Why do you blush, dear cousin ? So, t'will beat me ! 
I'll give it up. 

Modus. — Nay, prithee don't, try on ! 

Helen. — And if I do, I fear you'll think me bold. 

Modus. — For what? 

Helen. — To trust my face so near to thine. 

Modus {with blank stupidity) . — I know not what you 
mean. 

Helen. — I'm glad you don't? 
Cousin, I own right well behaved you are. 
Most marvclously well behaved ! They've bred 
You well at college. With another man 
My lips would be in danger ! Hang the ruff ! 

Modus {patronizingly). — Nay, give it up, nor plague thy- 
self, dear cousin. 

Helen. — Dear fool. {Throws the ruff on the ground.) 
I swear the ruff is good for just 
As little as its master ! There ! — 'Tis spoiled — 
You'll have to get another. Hie for it, 
And wear it in the fashion of a wisp, 
Ere I adjust it for thee. Farewell, cousin. 
You've need to study Ovid's Art of Love. (She flounces 
out.) 

Modus. — Went she in anger? I will follow her. 
No, I will not. Heigho ! I love my cousin ! 
Oh, would that she loved me ! Why did she taunt me 
With backwardness in love? W 7 hat could she mean? 



68 HELEN AND MODUS. 

Says she I love her, and so laughs at me, 

Because I lack the front to woo her? Nay, 

I'll woo her, then ! Her lips shall be in danger, 

When next she trusts them near me. Looked she at me 

To-day, as never did she look before. (He begins to read, 

pauses, and thrusts hook into his bosom.) 
Hang Ovid's Art of Love ! I'll woo my cousin ! {He 

goes out.) 

Scene II. 

Helen and Modus stand at opposite sides, make a long 
pause, then bashfully look at each other, 

HELEN. — Why, cousin Modus ! What! Will vou stand 
by 
And see me forced to marry? Cousin Modus, 
Have you not got a tongue? Have you not eyes? 
Do you not see I'm very —very ill, 
And not a chair in all the corridor? 

MODUS. — I'll find one in the study. {lie starts out.) 
Helen. — Hang the study ! 

Modus. — My room's at hand. I'll fetch one thence. 

(He starts off on other side.) 
Helen. — Vou shan't ! 

I'll faint ere you come back ! 
Modus. — What shall I do? 

Ih len. — Why don't you offer to support me? Well? 
Give me your arm be quick ! (Modus offers his arm very 

stiffly.) Is that the way 
To help a lady when she's like to faint? 
I'll drop unless you catch me. {Falls against him, — He 

supports her.) That will do ; 
I'm better now. | He offers to leave her. } I )on't leave me ! 
Is one well 



HELEN AND MODUS. 69 

Because one's better? Hold my hand. Keep so. — {A 

pause.) 
Well, cousin Modus? 

Modus. — Well, sweet cousin? 

Helen.— Well 

You heard what Master Walter said? 

Modus.— I did. 

Helen. — And would you have me marry? Can't you 
speak ? 
Say yes or no. 

Modus. — No, cousin. 

Helen. — Bravely said ! 

And why, my gallant cousin? 

Modus. — Why? 

Helen. — Ah, why ! — 

Women, you know, are fond of reasons — why 
Would you not have me marry? {He gives her a loving 

look.) How you look ! 
You mind me of a story of a cousin 
Who once her cousin such a question asked. 
He had not been to college, though — for books, 
Had passed his time in reading ladies' eyes, 
Which he could construe marvellously well, 
Thus stood they once together, on a day — 
As we stand now — discoursed as we discourse, — 
But with this difference, — fifty gentle words 
He spoke to her, for one she spoke to him ! 
As now I questioned thee, she questioned him, 
And what was his reply? To think of it 
Sets my heart beating — 'twas so kind a one ! 
So like a cousin's answer — a dear cousin ! 
A gentle, honest, gallant, loving cousin ! 
What did he say? 



70 in l ' N AND MOD 

Modus (shaking kis head).— On my soul I can't u-11. 
H, i i N ._.\ man might find it out, 
Though never read lie Ovid's Art of Love. 

What did he say? He'd marry her himself! 
How stupid are you, cousin ! Let me go ! 

MODUS {he holds her the more tightly).— You are not 

well yet. 
Helen.— Yes. 

Modus.— Vm sure you're not. 

Helen.— I'm sure I am. 

Modus.— Nay, let me hold you, cousin I 

1 like it. (He gazes at her.) 
I hi EN. — How you stare ! 
What see you in my face to wonder at? 
Moors. — A pair of eyes ! 

Helen.— And saw you ne'er a pair of eyes before? 
Modus. — Not such a pair. 
Helen.— And why? 

Modus.— They are so bright ! 

You have a Grecian nose. 

Helen— Indeed? 

Modus.— Indeed! 

Helen.— What kind of mouth have 1? 
MODUS.— ( A handsome one. 

I never saw so sweet a pair of lips '. 
1 tie' r saw lips at all till now, dear cousin ! 

Helen.— Cousin, 1 am well ; youneed not hold me now. 
Do you not hear? (She struggles a littie.) 1 tell you 1 

am well '. 
I need your arm no longer— take't away I 
So tight it locks me, 'tis with pain I breathe I 
Let me go, cousin ! Wherefore do you hold 
y OUI ^e so close to mine? What do you mean? 



HELEN AND MODUS. 7 1 

Modus. — You've questioned me, and now I'll question 
you. 

Helen. — What would you learn? 

Modus.— The use of lips? 

Helen. — To speak? 

Modus. — Naught else? 

Helen. — Why, other use know you? 

Modus. — I do. 

Helen. — Indeed ! 

You're wondrous wise ! And pray what is it? 

Modus. — This ! (He attempts to kiss her, but she inter- 
poses her hand and pushes him away.) 

Helen. — Soft ! My hand thanks you, cousin, — for my 
lips 
I keep them for a husband ! (Crosses.) Nay, stand off ! 
I'll not be held in manacles again ! (He follows^) 
Why do you follow me? 

Modus. — I love you, cousin ! 

Helen. — Oh, cousin, say you so? That's passing 
strange ! 
A thing to sigh for, weep for, languish for, 
And die for ! 

Modus. — Die for ! 

Helen. — Yes, with laughter, cousin ! 

For, cousin, I love you ! 

Modus. — And you'll be mine? 

Helen. — I will. 

Modus. — Your hand upon it. 

Helen. — Hand and heart. 

Hie to thy dressing room, and I'll to mine 

Attire thee for the altar — so will I. 

Whoe'er may claim me, thou'rt the man shall have me. 

Away ! Despatch ! But hark you, ere you go, 



72 HELEN AND MODUS. 

Ne'er brag of reading Ovid's Art of Love . 

Moi>r->. — And, cousin, Stop; one little word with you! 
{He beckons Helen ever to kirn, snatches a kiss. — 
She runs off ; he takes the book from his bosom, 
which he had put (here in former scene % looks at it 
and throws it down. He goes out by another ,/. 



SAM WELLER AND HIS FATHER. 



CHARACTERS. 

Mr. Pickwick, a fleshy old gentleman, neatly dressed. 
Mr. Weller, a stout man with a red nose, roughly dressed. 
Sam Weller, young man, rather gaudily dressed. 
Situation. — Mr. Pickwick and Sam have just seated them- 
selves at a table in a tavern when the actions of a man 
across the room attract their attention. Mr. Pickwick 
is seated at the head of the table, his side to the audience; 
Sam, at a respectful distance away at the side of the 
table, facing the audience. Mr. Weller Senior faces 
Mr. Pickwick and sits smocking a pipe on the othei 
side of the stage beside a small table on which is a pot 
of ale. 
Mr. Weller (drinks from his pot of ale, sets it down, 
stares across at Mr. Pickwick and at Sam, shades his 
eyes with his hand, then speaks slowly). — Wy, Sammy! 
Mr. Pickwick. — Who's that, Sam ? 

Sam Weller. — Why, I wouldn't ha' believed it, sir. It's 
the old 'un. 

Mr. Pickwick. — Old one, what old one? 
Sam. — My father, sir. (His father comes over.) How 
are you, my ancient? (Makes room for him on the seat 
beside him.) 

Mr. Weller. — W T y, Sammy, I ha'n't seen you for two 
years and better. 

73 



74 SAM WEI i i R AND HIS F U'HF.R. 

Sam.- No more you have, old codger. How's mother- 
in-law? 

Mr. Weller.— Wy, I'll tell you what, Sammy, there ncvci 
was a nicer woman as a widder, than that 'ere second wentUI 
o' mine— a sweet creetur she was, Sammy : all I can say 
on her now, is, that as she was such an uncommon pleasant 
widder, it's a great pity she ever changed her con-di-tion. 
She don't act as a vife, Sammy. 
Sam.— Don't she, though? 

Mr. Weller {with a sigh and a shake of his heat).— 
I've done it once too often. Sammy ; I've done it once 
too often. Take example by your father my boy, and he 
wery careful o' widders ail your life, specially if they've 
kept a public house, Sammy. [He pauses, refills his pipe 
from a tin box he carries in his pocket, and commences 
smoking again at a great rate. Then he turns suddenly 
to Mr. Pickwick) Beg your pardon, sir, [pause) nothin' 
personal, I hope, sir ; I hope you ha'n't got a widder, sir. 
Mi, ivkwick.— Not l—(Laughs while Sam whispers to 

his parent.) 

Mr. Wkli.er (taking Of his hat).— Beg your pardon, III ; 
I hope you've no fault to find with Sammy, sir? 

Mr. Pickwick.— None whatever. 

Mr. Weller.— Wery glad to hear it, sir; 1 took a deal 
o' pains with his eddication, sir ; let him run in the streets 
when he was wery young, and shut tor his-self. It's the 
only way to make a boy sharp, sir. 

Mr. I'kkwrk. — Rather a dangerous process. 1 should 

imagine. 

Sam. -And not a wery sure one, neither; I got reg larlv 

done the other dav. 
Mr. Wrller.— No ! 
Sam.— I did. Reglar do, artful dodge. 



SAM WELLER AND HIS FATHER. 75 

Mr. Pickwick. — I don't think he'll escape us quite so 
easily the next time, Sam? 

Sam. — I don't think he will sir. 

Mr. Pickwick. — Whenever I meet that Jingle again, 
whenever it is, {bringing down his fist on the table") I'll 
inflict personal chastisement on him in addition to the ex- 
posure he so richly merits, I will, or my name is not Pick- 
wick. 

Sam. — And wenever I catches hold o' that there melan- 
cholly chap with the black hair, Job Trotter, if I don't 
bring some real water into his eyes, for once in a way, 
my name a'nt Weller. 

Mr. Weller. — Worn't one o' these chaps slim and tall, 
with long hair, and the gift o' the gab wery gallopin' ? 

Mr. Pickwick {doubtfully). — Y — yes. 

Mr. Weller. — T' other's a black-haired chap in mulberry 
livery with a wery large head ! 

Mr. Pickwick and Sam. {together). — Yes, yes, he is. 

Mr. Weller. — Then I know where they are, and that's 
all about it ; they're at Ipswich, safe enough, them two. 

Mr. Pickwick. — No ! 

Mr. Weller. — Fact and I'll tell you how I know it. I 
work an Ipswich coach now and then for a friend o' mine. 
I worked down the wery day arter the night as you caught 
the rheumatiz, and at the Black Boy at Chelmesford — the 
wery place they'd come to — I took 'em up, right through 
to Ipswich, where the man servant — him in the mulberries 
— told me they was a goin' to put up for a long time. 

Mr. Pickwick. — I'll follow him ; we may as well see 
Ipswich as any other place. I'll follow him. 

Sam {to his father). — You're quite certain it was them, 
governor ? 

Mr. Weller. — Quite, Sammy, quite, for their appearance 



- () SAM WELLER am. His FATHER. 

is wery sing'lci ; besides that 'ere, I wondered to see the 
gen'lm'n so formiliar with his servant ; and more than that 
as they sat in front, right behind the box. 1 hcerd cm 
laughing, and saying how they'd done old Fireworks. 

Mr. Pickwick,— Old who? 

Mr. WELLER.— Old Fireworks, sir; by which, I've no 
doubt, they meant you, sir. 

Mr. Pickwk k {with an emphatic blow on the table). — J 11 

follow him. 

Mr. Weller.— I shall work down to Ipswich the day 
arter to-morrow, sir, from the Bull in White chapel ; and if 
you really mean to go you'd better go with me. (Moving 

away.) . . 

MR Pickw.ck.-So we had, very true. We will go with 
you. But don't hurry away, Mr. Weller J won't you take 

anything? 

Mr Weller (stopping short).— You're wery good, sir. 

perhaps a small glass of brandy to drink your health and 

success to Sammy, sir, wouldn't be amiss. 

MR. Pickwick.— Certainly not (Fours a glass of brandy, 
which Mr. Weller jerks down after pulling his hair to Mr. 
Pickwick and nodding to Sam.) 

Sam. -Well done, father, take care, old fellow, or you'll 
have a touch of your old complaint, the gout. 

Mr WELLER.— I've found a sov'rin cure tor that. 

Sammy. . 

MR. PICKWICK.— A sovereign cure for the gout, what is it. 

Mr Weller.— The gout sir, is a complaint as arises from 
too much ease and comfort It ever you're attacked with the 
gout, s»r, jist you marry a widder as has got a good loud « 

With a decent notion Of USin* it. and you'll never have the 

eout agin. It"? a capital prescription, sir. 1 tak- 

| tf and 1 can warrant it tO drive aw.vanv illness 

caused by too much jollity. (Sigh, deeply an ut.) 



SAM WELLER AND HIS FATHER. 77 

Mr. Pickwick. — Well, what do you think of what your 
father says, Sam? 

Sam. — Think, sir ! why, I think he's the wictim o' con- 
nubiality, as Blue Beard's domestic chaplain said, with a 
tear of pity, ven he buried him. 

CURTAIN- 



EXTRACTING A SECRET. 



( HARACTERS. 

Frau Fischer, a fleshy woman of middle a 

Herr Schmidt, a young man. 

Situation.- -As the outcome of a quarrel at the shop of 
Herr Fischer, a poor Count in his employ took off a 

musical doll. White the Count was eating in a 
taurant a man at a neighboring table claimed that the 
doll had turn stolen from him some months before. So 
much of a disturbance arose that the police ice re called 
in and all concerned were at rested* and taken to the 
police station. 

Herr Schmidt, employed in the same shop as the 
Count, hurries away to the home of HERR Kim hi. k /// 
order to get him to prove property and rescue the Count 
from /ail. The following scene shows the res hit of his 
endeavors. 

The dialogue takes place in the sitting-room of FRAU 

Fischer. Herb Schmidt is in the room and a 

moment later the Frau enters to learn his errand. 

Here Schmidt.— Good evening, Frau Fischer. I would 
like to speak to your husband upon a little matter of busi- 
ness. 

Frau Fischer.- He is not at home yet. I left him in 

the shop. (Schmidt turns and hurries away.) Wait a 

minute ' What in the world are you in such a hurry about? 

78 



EXTRACTING A SECRET. 79 

Herr Schmidt {stopping suddenly). — Oh — nothing — 
nothing especial. 

Frau Fischer {putting her hands on her hips and hold- 
ing her head a little on one side) . — Well, I must say, for a 
man who is not in a hurry about anything, you are uncom- 
monly brisk with your feet. If it is only a matter of busi- 
ness, I daresay I will do as well as my husband. 

Herr Schmidt. — Oh, I daresay. But this is rather a 
personal matter of business, you see 

Frau Fischer. — And you mean that you want some 
money, I suppose. 

Herr Schmidt. — No, no, not at all — no money at all. 
It is not a question of money. {Begins to move away slowly.) 

Frau Fischer {at first with a puzzled expression, then as 
if a new idea had coine to her) . — Have you seen the Count ? 

Herr Schmidt {in a doubtful tone of voice). — Yes, I 
believe — in fact, I did see him — for a moment 

Frau Fischer {smiling to herself). — I thought so. And 
he has made some trouble about that wretched doll 

Herr Schmidt {very much astonished). — How did you 
guess that? 

Frau Fischer. — Oh, I know many things — many interest- 
ing things. And now you want to warn my husband of 
what the Count has done, do you not? It must be some- 
thing serious, since you are in such a hurry. Come, Herr 
Schmidt, have a cup of tea. Fischer will be home in a few 
minutes, and you see I have guessed half your story, so you 
may as well tell me the other half and be done with it. It 
is of no use for you to go to the shop after him. He has 
shut up by this time and you cannot tell which way he will 
come home, can you? Much better have a cup of tea. 
Everything is ready, so that you need not stay long. {Schmidt 
after a good deal of hesitation sits down at a small table. 



So EXTRA* [TNG \ 51 CR1 I. 

Fran Fischer pours out two cups of tea at a littlr stand at 
the side of the room anil carries them to the Hide tai<. 
herself and Herr Schmidt She scats herself opposite to him. ) 
The poor Count ! He is sure to get himself into trouble 
some day. I suppose people cannot help behaving oddly 
when they are mad, poor things. And the Count is 
certainly mad, Herr Schmidt. 

Herr Schmidt.- Quite mad, poor man. He has had 
one of his worst attacks to-day. 

Fkal' FISCHER. — Yes, and if you could have seen him 
and heard him in the shop this evening — {holds up her 
hands and shakes her head.) 

Hi Kk Schmidt. — What did he do? 

Frau Fischer. — Oh, such things, such things ! Poor 
man, of course I am very sorry for him, and I am glad that 
my husband finds room to employ him, and keep him from 
starving. But really, this evening he quite made me lose 
my temper. 1 am afraid I was a little rough, considering 
that he is sensitive. But to hear the man talk about his 
money, and his titles, and his dignities, when he i^ only 
just able to keep body and soul together ! It is enough to 
irritate the seven archangels, Herr Schmidt, indeed it i-> ! 
And then at the same time there was that dreadful music 
doll, and my head was splitting- -I am Mire there will be a 
thunder storm to-night — altogether, 1 could not bear it any 
longer and I actually upset the doll out ol anger, and it 
rolled to the tloor and was broken. Of course, it is very 
foolish to Loose one's temper in that way, but after all I am 
only a weak woman, and I confess it was a relief to me 
when I saw the poor count take the thing away. 1 hope 1 
did not really hurt his feelings, for he is an excellent work- 
man in spite of his madness. What did he say, Herr 
Schmidt? 



EXTRACTING A SECRET. 8 1 

Herr Schmidt. — To tell the truth he did not like what 
you said to him at all. 

Frau Fischer. — Well, really, was it my fault, Herr 
Schmidt, if I lose my temper once in a year or so? It is 
very wearing on the nerves. Every Tuesday evening begins 
the same old song about the fortune and letters, and the 
journey to Russia. 

Herr Schmidt. — Do you think that Herr Fischer can 
have gone anywhere else instead of coming home ? (He has 
hicrriedly swallowed his cup of tea.) 

Frau Fischer (convincingly). — Oh no, indeed. He 
always tells me where he is going. You have no idea what 
a good husband he is. Now I am sure that if he had the 
least idea that anything had happened to the poor Count, 
he would run all the way home in order to hear it as soon 
as possible. (She takes his cup for more tea.) 

Herr Schmidt. — No more tea, thank you, Frau Fischer. 
(Nevertheless she takes the cup and fills it again. Schmidt 
looks resigned.) Thank you ! 

Frau Fischer. — Of course it is nothing so very serious, 
is it? I daresay the Count has told you that he would not 
work any more for us, and you are anxious to arrange the 
matter? In that case you need have no fear. lam 
always ready to forgive and forget, as they say, though I 
am only a weak woman. 

Herr Schmidt. — That is very kind of you. 

Frau Fischer. — I guessed the truth, did I not? 

Herr Schmidt. — Not exactly. — The trouble is rather 
more serious than that. The fact is, as we were at supper, 
a man at another table saw the musical doll in our hands 
and swore that it had been stolen from him some months ago. 

Frau Fischer (with sudde7i interest). — And what hap- 
pened then? 



8a i.xiku UN'. A SECRET. 

Hi kr SCHMID 'fully). — \ suppose you may as well 

know. There was a row and the man made a great deal 

Of trouble and at last the police were < ailed in, and 1 came 

■t Herr Fischer himself to < nine and prove that the 

doll was his. You see why I am in such a hurry. 

l'ku FISCHER. -Do you think they have arrested the Count? 

Hikk Schmidt.— I imagine that every one concerned 
would be taken to the police station. 
Frau Fischer.— And then? 
Herr Schmidt. And then, unless the affair is cleared 

up, they will be kept there all night. 

Frau Fischer {holding up her hands in horror).— Mb 

night ! Poor Count ! He will be quite crazy now. 1 fear- 
especially as this is Tuesday evening. 

Herr Schmidt (with decision).— Then he must be got 
out at once. Herr Fischer will surely not allow 

FkAU Fischer. — No, indeed ! You have only to wait 
until he comes home, and then you can go together. ( >r. 
better still, if he does not come back in a quarter of an 
hour, and if he has really shut up his shop as usual, you 
might look for him at the Cafe* Leopold, and if he is 
there, it is just possible that he may have looked in at the 
theatre, for which he often has free tickets -and if the per- 
formance is over, he may be in the Cafe* Maximilian, or he 
may have gone to drink a glass of beer 

Herr Sa&nnr (jumping to his feet).— -But, good Hea- 
vens, Frau Fischer, you said VOU were quite sure In- 
coming home at once ! Now I have lost all this time. 

Frau Fischer (smiling).— You see it is just possible that 
to-night, as he was a little annoyed with me tor being sharp 
with the Count, he may have gone somewhere without tell- 
ing me. But 1 really could not foresee ,t, because he is 
SUCh a good 



EXTRACTING A SECRET. 83 

Herr Schmidt. — I know. If I miss him, you will tell 
him, will you not? Thank you, and good night, Frau 
Fischer, I cannot afford to wait a moment longer. (He 
goes out.) 

Frau Fischer. — Oh, ho ! Herr Fischer is at the other 
end of the city. (She goes out.) 



OPEN OR SHUT? 



Adapted from a. proverb in one act by Alfred dc Musset, entitled " A (k>Of must be 
either open or sbut." 



CHARACTI RS. 

Count, an interesting, intelligent gentleman who lives op- 
posite the Marquise. 

Marquise, a wealthy lady, of sparkling ioit, who thoroughly 
understands and plays with the COUNT. 

Situation. --The Count calls to propose to rifc Marqi 

but her repartee holds him off a ml brings him into vari- 
ous ridiculous situations. 

There should be an exit on each side, a window 
should be near the door at which the CoUNl enters. 
The fire is opposite this door, and there should be some 
logs nearby and also a firescreen, A cushion should 
be somewhere at hand. 'The room otherwise should 
be fitted up as elegantly as possible. 
The MARQUISE is seated on a sofa near the fire embroider- 
ing, iphen the Count enters a door from the opposite 
side and bows. 
Count. — My memory is slun kin-- I can't possibly re- 
member your day. Whenever I want to see you, it is sure 
to be a Tuesday. 

Marquise. —Have you anything to say to me? 
Count. — No; but suppose 1 had,] could uot say it. 

84 



OPEN OR SHUT? 85 

Within the next quarter of an hour, you are sure to have a 
mob of intimate friends in here. I warn you they will put 
me to flight. 

Marquise. — It is true that to-day is my day. Everybody 
has a day. It is the only way to see as little as possible of 
people. When I say " I am at home on Tuesdays," it is 
as if I said, " Leave me in peace on the other days." 

Count. — That makes it all the worse for me to come to- 
day, since you allow me to see you in the week 

Marquise. — Sit down. If you are in a good temper, 
you may talk ; if not warm yourself. {He sits, showing 
considei'able emotion scarcely controlled.} But what is the 
matter with you? You seem 

Count {controlling hh?iself). — What? 

Marquise. — I would not say the word for the world. 

Count {relieved). — Well, indeed, then I will admit it. 
Before I came in I was a little 

Marquise. — What? It is my turn now to ask. 

Count {with some agitation). — Will you be angry if I tell 
you? 

Marquise. — There's a ball this evening and I want to 
look my best ; so I shall not lose my temper all day. 

Count {apparently giving up his purpose to propose). — 
Well, I was a little bored. I don't know what to do. I 
am as stupid as a magazine article. 

Marquise. — I can say the same for myself. I am bored 
to extinction. It is the weather, no doubt. 

Count. — The fact is, cold is abominable. 

Marquise. — Perhaps it is because we are growing old. 
I am begining to be thirty, and am losing my talent for 
existence. 

Count. — It is a talent I never had, and what frightens 
me is that I am picking it up. As one ages, one turns 



bb OPEN QB SH| l ? 

fogy or fool, and I am (/// a tone of despair) desperately 
afraid of dying a wiseacre. 

Marquise {apparently shocked). — Ring for them to put 

a log on the inc. Your idea free /.cm nit-. | . / ting of the 
door-hell is /want outside. ) 

Count. — It is not worth while. There is a ring at the 
door, md your procession is arriving. 

M Aki.'i im . -Let us see who will carry the llag ; and 
above all, do your best to stay. 

Count. — No ; decidedly I am off. 

Marquise. — Where are you going? 

COUNT, — I haven't an idea. {He n'ses, fagtf and 
the door.) Adieu, madam, till Thursday evening. 

Marquise. — Why Thursday? 

Count. — Is it not your day at the opera? I will go and 
pay you a little visit. 

Marquise. — I don't want you; you are too crQSf, Be- 
sides, I take M. Camus. 

Count. — M. Camus, your country neighbor? | He takes 
a step hack into the room.) 

Marquise. — Yes. He sold me apples and hay with 
great politeness, and I want to return the favor. 

Count. — The most wearisome creature ! By the way, do 
you know what the world says? 

Marquise. — No. But no one is coming. Who rang 
there? 

Count (looking out of :oi>ido- l d). No one. A little girl, 
I think with a bandbox something or other— a washer- 
woman. She is there in the court talking to \our servants. 

Marquise. — Vow cajl that something or other. That's 
polite. It is my bonnet. — Well, what are they saying about 

me and M. Camus? — Do shut that door. There's a terrible 
draught. 



OPEN OR SHUT? 87 

Count {shutting the door). — People are saying that you 
are thinking of marrying again, and that M. Camus is a 
millionaire, and that he comes very often to your house. 

Marquise. — Really ! Is that all ? And you tell me 
that to my face ? 

Count. — I tell it you because people are talking of it. 

Marquise. — That is a pretty reason. Do I repeat to 
you all the world says of you? 

Count {astonished). — Of me, madam? What can it be? 
You frighten me. 

Marquise. — One more proof that the world is right. 

Count {sifting down). — I implore you, Marquise. I 
ask it as a favor. You are the person in all the world 
whose opinion I value most. 

Marquise {calmly). — One of the persons, you mean. 

Count. — No, madam, I say the person — she whose es- 
teem, whose opinion 

Marquise. — Good heavens ! you are going to turn a 
phrase. 

Count. — Not at all. You can't but understand. 

Marquise {in a bantering tone). — I only understand 
what people tell me, and even then I am hard of hearing. 

Count {a little angry) . — You laugh at everything ; but 
candidly {he becomes almost passionate), could it be pos- 
sible that after seeing you for a whole year, with your wit, 
your beauty, your grace • 

Marquise {with affected horror). — But, good heavens! 
this is worse than a phrase \ it is a declaration. Warn me 
at least. Is it a declaration or a New Year's compli- 
ment? 

Count. — And suppose it were a declaration. 

Marquise.— Oh, I don't want it this morning. I told 
you I was going to a ball \ I run the risk of hearing some 



88 OPEN OR Mil I ? 

this evening, and my health won't stand that sort of thing 
twice a day. {Bell rings again.) 

(mini. There's another ring. (ioodbv, I am off. {He 
opens the door but turns back.) Will yon not repeat what 
was said to you about me, Marquise? 

Marquise. — Come to the ball this evening, and we will 
have a talk. 

Coi NT.— Yes, talk in a ballroom ! A nice spot for con 
versation ! Do you know what I am going to do? I am 
going back to Italy. 

MARQUISE. — Ah? And how will that suit mademoiselle? 

Coi NT. — Mademoiselle who, please? 

Marquise.— Mademoiselle — somebody. The young lady 
who is your protegee. What do I know of your ballet-girl's 
names ? 

Count. — Ah ! So that is the fine story they have been 
telling you about me? 

Marquise. — Precisely. Do you deny it? 

Count. — It is a pack of rubbish. 

Marquise. — Do shut that door; you are freezing me. 

Count. — I am just going. — {Looks out of window.) The 
weather has changed. It is raining and hailing as hard as 
you please. There is another bonnet for you. 

Marquise. — But do shut that door. You can't go out 
in this weather. 

Count {shutting the (/<u>r). — With this hail you will not 
have any one here. There is one of your days wasted 

Marquise.— Not at all, since you came. Do put down 
your hat. It worries me. 

Count {putting the hat down). — A compliment, madam. 
Take care, you who profess to hate them, might have yours 
taken for truth. 

M uo.'i 1-1 . -But 1 say it, and it is quite true. You give 
me great pleasure by coming to see me. 



OPEN OR SHUT? 89 

Count {sitting down near the Marquise) . — Then let me 
love you. 

Marquise. — I am quite willing. That doesn't annoy 
me the least bit in the world. 

Count. — Then let me speak of it to you. 

Marquise. — No, indeed. Because I am alone you feel 
yourself bound in honor to make love to me — this same 
eternal, intolerable love-making, that is so useless, so ridi- 
culous and so hackneyed an affair. Good heavens ! do 
you think I don't know what you could tell me? 

Count. — Is it really possible ? What, you, at your age, 
despise love? The words of a man who loves you affect 
you like a trashy novel. His looks, gestures, sentiments 
seem like a comedy to you. Where do you come from, 
Marquise? Who has given you these maxims? 

Marquise. — I have come a long way, neighbor mine. 

Count. — Yes, from your nurse. Women fancy they know 
everything in the world. They know nothing at all. 

Marquise. — I beg you to put a log on the fire. 

Count {putting the log on). — You discourage a poor 
fellow by telling him, " I know what you are going to tell 
me." But has he not the right to reply, " Yes, madam, but 
when I speak to you, I forget it." There is nothing new 
under the sun. But I say in my turn, ts What does that 
prove?" 

Marquise. — Come, this is better ; you are talking capi- 
tally. This is the next thing to a book. 

Count. — Yes, I am talking, and I am assuring you that 
if you are such as it is your pleasure to seem, I pity you 
most sincerely. Why ! heaven help us ! If love is a 
comedy 

Marquise. — The fire is burning badly ; that log is crooked. 

Count {arranging the fire) . — If love is a comedy, that 



uo OPFN OR SHOT? 

world-old comedy is Still, aftei all is said and done, the best 
performance that has been invented. 11 the play were 
worthless the whole universe would not know it by heart ; and 
I am wrong to call it old. Is that old which is immortal? 

MARQUISE.— Monsieur, this is poetry. 

Count. — No, madam ; but these stale speeches, these 
compliments, declarations are excellent old things, some- 
times ridiculous, but all of them accompaniments to another 
thing which is always young. 

MARQUISE. — You are getting confused. What is it that is 
always old, and what is it that is always young? 

Count. — Love. 

Marquise. — Monsieur, this is eloquence. 

Count. — No, madam. I mean this ; that love is eter- 
nally young, and that the ways of expressing it are, and 
will remain, eternally old. The worn-out formulas, the 
iterations, those tags of novels — all these pass, but the king 
never dies, Love is dead ; long live Love ! 

Marquise. — Love ? 

Count. — Love. And even suppose one were merely 
fancying 

Marquise. — Give me the fire-screen there. 

Count. — This one? 

Marquise. — No, the brocaded one. Your fire is putting 
out my eyes now. 

Count (handing the screen to the Marquise)* — Even, 
suppose it were merely fancy that one is in love, is not that 
a charming thing? 

Marquise. — But I tell you it is always the same thing. 

Count. — And always new, afl the song says. If you are 
like your grandmother, are you the less pretty for that? 

MaRQUBE. — That's right, there is the chorus ; pretty. 
Give me that cushion near you. 



OPEN OR SHUT? 9 1 

Count {taking cushion and holding it in his hand). — That 
Venus is made to be beautiful, to be loved and admired, 
does not bore her in the least. If the splendid figure 
Milo conceived ever had a divine model, assuredly she let 
herself be loved like any one else, like her cousin Astarte, 
like Aspasia and 

Marquise. — Monsieur, this is mythology. 

Count {still holding cushion). — No, madam, I cannot say 
how painful to me is the sight of this fashionable indifference 
this mocking, disdainful coldness. {She yawns.) People 
turn aside, or yawn, as you do at this moment, and say that 
love is a thing not to be talked of. Then why do you wear 
lace? What is that tuft of feathers doing in your hair? 

Marquise. — And what is that cushion doing in your 
hand? I asked you for it to put under my feet. 

Count {he places the cushion on the floor before the Mar- 
quise and kneels on it) . — Well, then, there it is, and there 
am I too, and whether you will or no, I will make you a 
proposal, as old as the streets and as stupid as a goose, for 
I am furious with you. 

Marquise {coldly). — Will you do me the favor to rise, if 
you please? 

Count. — No ; you must listen to me first. 

Marquise. — You will not get up ? 

Count. — No, no, and no again, as you said a moment 
ago, unless you consent to hear me. 

Marquise {rising). — Then I have the honor to wish you 
a good morning. 

Count {still on his knees) . — Marquise, in heaven's name 
this is too cruel. You will make me mad. You will drive 
me to despair. 

Marquise. — You will recover at the Cafe" de Paris. 

Count (in the same position). — No, upon my honor, I 



g 2 OMEN OR si Hi ? 

speak from my heart. It is not to-day only; it is from the 
first day I saw you that I have loved you, that 1 have 
adored you. There is no exaggeration in the words I use. 
Yes tor more than a year I have adored you. 1 have 
dreamed 

Marquise.— Adieu ! (She %a s out leaving ike door o; 

I lUNT (in desolation he remains kneeling a moment lon- 
ger, then he rises with a shiver) . — That door is icy. (He 
starts out but sees the Marquise.) Ah, Marquise, you are 

laughing at me. 

Marquise (leaning against the half-open door). — So you 
have found your feet. 

Count. Yes \ and I am going, never to see you again. 

MARQUISE.— Come to the ball this evening, 1 am keeping 
a waltz for you. 

Count. — I will never, never see you again. I am in des- 
pair : 1 am lost. 

MARQUISE.— What is the matter with you. 

Count. I am lost. I love you like a child. 1 swear to 

you on all that is most sacred in the world 

Marquise (she isgoing ouf).— Adieu ! 

Count. — It is for me to leave, madam. Stay, 1 beg oi 
you. 1 feel how much 1 have to suffer 

MARQUISE (seriously).— Let us make an end now. mon- 
sieur. What do you want with me? 

Cum (confused).— Why, madam, 1 wish— I would 

like 

Marquise.— What? You wear out my patience. Do 
you imagine that 1 am going to be your mistress? it is 
revolting. 

Count (astonished).— You, Marquise? Great heav< 

My whole lite 1 would lay at vour feet. Mv name, mv pro- 
perty, my honor itself 1 would entrust to you. Am I blind 
or mad? You my mistress? No, but my wife. 



OPEN OR SHUT.' 93 

Marquise {contentedly) . — Oh ! very well. If you had told 
me that at the beginning, we should not have quarrelled. So 
you want to marry me? 

Count. — Why, certainly, I am dying to. For this last 
year I have been thinking of nothing else. I would give 
my life-blood to be allowed the faintest hope. 

Marquise. — Wait now. You are richer than I. 

Count. — Oh dear no ! I don't think so. And what does 
it matter to you? I entreat you, let us not talk of these 
things. Your smile this moment makes me shiver with hope 
and fear. One word, for pity's sake. My life is in your 
hands. 

Marquise. — I am going to tell you two proverbs. The 
first is, Never play at cross purposes. 

Count. — Then what I have dared to tell you does not 
displease you? 

Marquise. — Oh no ! Here is my second proverb : A 
door must be either open or shut. Now for three-quarters 
of an hour here has this door, thanks to you, been neither 
one nor the other, and the room is perfectly icy. Conse- 
quence again™you are going to give me your arm to take 
me to dine at my mother's. I am going to put on my bon- 
net. 

Count. — You overwhelm me with joy. How am I to 
express 

Marquise {as she goes out on opposite side). — But do shut 
that unhappy door. This room will never be fit to live in 
again. {He goes out.) 



TAMING A WIFE. 

Adapted from a play, " The Honeymoon," by John Tobin. 



CHAR.M I I RS 



Duke Aranza, a tall, good-looking, strong-minded man. 

Balthazar, a powerful, irascible, elderly man. 

Juliana, beautiful, haughty, ami independent, wife to DUKE, 

and daughter to Balthazar. 

Pedro, usher in Duke's Palace, 

Jaques. serrant to DUKE, a e ting Duke, in absenee of real 

duke. 
Campillo, steward to Duke, 

Lopez, a peasant. 

Attendants and Ladies at the Court of the Duke. 

Situation. The DUKE, immediately after his man 

takes his bride not to his palace, but to a country eot- 
taee in order to tame her haughty, almost insolent spirit 
before giving her the power and position of Dueh ess. 
In anger at the deception, she writes to her father to 
eome to her deliveranee. After many delays he at last 
arrives only to find her now content with her humble 
life in a cottage. He nevertheless seeks redress at the 

Duke's palace. The Duke takes this occasion to re- 
turn to his real home, -where JaQUES has presided in 
his absenee; and all parties are thus satisfied. 

94 



TAMING A WIFE. 95 

The Duke should be dressed as a peasant, until the 
last scene, when he dons his ducal robes. Jaques, when 
he first appears, should have on some gorgeous apparel 
over his costume as chief servant. He must slip these 
garments off before he comes in preceding the real duke. 
Juliana's attire should be simple, — in the last scene, a 
white muslin. 

Scene I. 

A room in a cottage. Table and two chairs. Enter the 
Duke, leading in Juliana. 

Duke {brings a chair forward and sits down). — You 
are welcome home. 

Juliana (crosses). — Home! You are merry; this re- 
tired spot 
Would be a palace for an owl ! 

Duke. — Tis ours 

Juliana. — Ay, for the time we stay in it. 

Duke. — By Heaven, 

This is the noble mansion that I spoke of ! 

Juliana. — This ! — You are not in earnest, though you 
bear it 
With such a sober brow. — Come, come, you jest. 

Duke. — Indeed I jest not ; were it ours in jest, 
We should have none, wife. 

Juliana. — Are you serious, sir? 

Duke. — I swear, as I'm your husband, and no duke. 

Juliana. — No duke? 

Duke. — But of my own creation, lady. 

Juliana (aside). — Am I betrayed? — Nay, do not play 
the fool ! 
It is too keen a joke. 

Duke. — You'll find it true. 



¥> 



TAMING A WIFE. 



1 1 liana. — You are no duke, then? 
Duke.— None. 

Juliana {aside).— Have I been cozened?— 

And have you no estate, sir? 
No palaces, nor houses? 

Duke. — None but this : 

A small snug dwelling, and in good repair. 
JULIANA. — Nor money, nor effects? 

Duke. None that 1 know of. 

Juliana. — And the attendants who have waited on us? 
Duke. — They were my friends, who, having done my 
business, 
Are gone about their own. 

Juliana (aside). — Why, then, 'tis clear.— 
That I was ever born ! — (Aloud). What are you, sir? 
Duke (rises). — I am an honest man — that may content 
you. 
Young, nor ill-favor'd— should not that content you? 
I am your husband, and that must content you. 
Juliana.— I will go home ! (Going.) 
Dukk. — You are at home, already. (Slaying her.) 
Juliana.— I'll not endure it ! — But remember this — 
Duke, or no duke, I'll be a duchess, sir ! (Cros 

Duke.— A duchess ! You shall be a queen, — to all 
Who, by the courtesy, will call you so. 
[ULIANA. — And I will have attendance! 
Duke. — s " vou shall, 

When you have learnt to wait upon yourself. 

Juliana.— To wait upon myself ! Must I bear this? 
I could tear out my eyes, that bade vou woo me. 
And bite my tongue in two, for saying yes ! ( Crosses.) 

DUKE.- And it vou should, 'twould grow again.— 
I think, to be an honest yeoman"> wile 



TAMING A WIFE. 97 

(For such, my would-be duchess, you will find me,) 
You were cut out by nature. 

Juliana. — You will find, then, 

That education, sir, has spoilt me for it. — 
Why ! do you think I'll work? 

Duke. — I think 'twill happen, wife. 

Juliana. — What ! Rub and scrub 

Your noble palace clean? 

Duke. — Those taper fingers 

Will do it daintily. 

Juliana. — And dress your victuals 

(If there be any) ? — Oh ! I could go mad ! (Crosses.) 

Duke. — And mend my hose, and darn my nightcaps neatly: 
Wait, like an echo, till you're spoken to — 

Juliana. — Or like a clock, talk only once an hour? 

Duke. — Or like a dial ; for that quietly 
Performs its work, and never speaks at all. 

Juliana. — To feed your poultry and your hogs ! — Oh, 
monstrous ! 
And when I stir abroad, on great occasions 
Carry a squeaking tithe pig to the vicar ; 
Or jolt with higglers' wives the market trot, 
To sell your eggs and butter ! ( Crossing?) 

Duke. — Excellent ! 

How well you sum the duties of a wife ! 
Why, what a blessing I shall have in you ! 

Juliana. — A blessing ! 

Duke. — When they talk of you and me, 

Darby and Joan shall no more be remembered : — 
We shall be happy ! 

Juliana. — Shall we ? 

Duke. — Wondrous happy ! 

Oh, you will make an admirable wife ! 
7 



ijS 1AM IN'. A Will. 

1 1 LIANA. — III make a devil. 

Duke.— What? 

|i i iana. — A very devil. 

Duke. — Oh, no I We'll have no deviis. 
Juliana.— I'll not bear it I 

I'll to my father's ! — 

Duke.— Gently : you forget 

You are a perfect stranger to the road. 

1 1 -liana. — My wrongs will find a way, or make me. 
Duke.— Softly ! 

Ybu stir not hence, except to take the air ; 
And then I'll breathe it with yon. 

J i liana. what, confine me? 

Dukl. — Twould be unsafe to trust you yet abroad. 

Juliana. — Am 1 a truant schoolboy? 

Dike.— Nay, not so; 

But you must keep your bounds. 

Juliana. And if I break them 

Perhaps you'll beat me.— 

Duke.— Beat you! 

The man that lays his hand upon a woman, 
Save in the way of kindness, is a wren li 
Whom 'twere gross flattery to name a coward — 
I'll talk to you, lady, but not beat you. 

[ULIANA. Well, it 1 may not travel to my father 
J may write to him, surely !— And I will— 
If I can meet within your spacious dukedom 
Three such unhoped- for miracles at once, 
As pens, and ink, and paper. 

Duke.— Vou will find them 

In the next room. — A word before you go— 
You are my wife, by every tie that's sacred; 
The partner of my fortune and my bed — 



TAMING A WIFE. 99 

Juliana. — Your fortune ! 

Duke. — Peace ! — No fooling, idle woman ! 

Beneath th' attesting eye of Heaven I've sworn 
To love, to honor, cherish and protect you. 
No human power can part us. What remains, then? 
To fret, and worry and torment each other? 
Or, like a loving and a patient pair 
To soothe the taste of fortune's lowliness 
With sweet consent, and mutual fond endearment? — 
Now to your chamber — write what'er you please ; 
But pause before you stain the spotless paper, 
With words that may inflame, but cannot heal ! 

Juliana. — Why, what a patient worm you take me for ! 

Duke. — I took you for a wife ; and, ere I've done, 
I'll know you for a good one. 

Juliana. — You shall know me 

For a right woman, full of her own sex ; 
Who when she suffers wrong, will speak her anger, 
Who feels her own prerogative, and scorns, 
By the proud reason of superior man, 
To be taught patience, when her swelling heart 
Cries out revenge ! (She goes on/.) 

Duke. — Why, let the flood rage on ! 

There is no tide in woman's wildest passion 
But hath- an ebb. — I've broke the ice, however. — 
Write to her father ! — She may write a folio — 
Though I have heard some husbands say, and wisely, 
A woman's honor is her safest guard, 

Yet there's some virtue in a lock and key. (Locks the door.) 
So, thus begins our honeymoon. — 'Tis well ! 
For the first fortnight, ruder than March winds, 
She'll blow a hurricane. The next, perhaps 
Like April she may wear a changeful face 



IOO TAMING a wn I.. 

►rm and sunshine : and when that is past 
she will break glorious as unclouded May. | h </.) 

Scene II. 
A room in the cottage,- \nd chair. Enter the 1 H KB, 

in peasant dress. He unlocks the door on the other 
sit/c iith/ holds the hey in his hand. 
Duke.— She hath composed a letter, and what's worse 
Contrived to send it by a village boy 
'That passed the window.— Yet she now appears 
Profoundly penitent It cannot be . 
'Tis a conversion too miraculous. 
Her cold disdain yields with too tree a spirit; 
Like ice, which melted by unnatural heat — 
Not by the gradual and kindly thaw 
Of the resolving elements- give it air, 
Will straight congeal again— She comes — I'll try her. 

Enter Juliana in a Peasants Dress, through door just 
unlocked. 
Why, what's the matter now? 

Juliana. — 'That foolish letter I 

Duke. — What ! You repent of having written it? 

In [ANA. — I do indeed. 1 could cut off my fingers 
For being partners in the act 

Duke. — Nfo matter; 

You may indite one in a milder spirit, 
That shall pluck out its sting. 

Juliana. — I can — 

Duke.— Yea must, 

Juliana. — I can. 

Duke. — You shall. 

Jn iana. — 1 will, if 'tis your pleasure. 

Duke. — Well replied. 



TAMING A WIFE. IOI 

I see now plainly you have found your wits, 
And are a sober metamorphosed woman. 

Juliana. — I am, indeed. 

Duke. — I know it ; I can read you. 

There is a true contrition in your looks : — 
Yours is no penitence in masquerade — 
You are not playing on me? 

Juliana. — Playing, sir. 

Duke. — You have found out the vanity of those things 
For which you lately sigh'd so deep? 

Juliana. — I have, sir. 

Duke. — A dukedom ! — Pshaw ! — It is an idle thing. 

Juliana. — I have begun to think so. 

Duke {aside") . — That's a lie ! — 

Is not this tranquil and retired spot 
More rich in real pleasure than a palace? 

Juliana. — I like it infinitely. 

Duke (aside) . — That's another ! — 

The mansion's small, 'tis true, but very snug 

Juliana. — Exceeding snug ! 

Duke. — The furniture not splendid, 
But then all useful ! 

Juliana. — All exceeding useful ! 

(Aside.) There's not a piece on't but serves twenty purposes. 

Duke. — And though we're seldom plagued by visitors, 
We have the best of company — ourselves. 
Nor, whilst our limbs are full of active youth, 
Need we loll in a carriage to provoke 
A lazy circulation of the blood, (takes her arm and walks 

about) 
When walking is a nobler exercise. 

Juliana. — More wholesome too. 

Duke. — And far less dangerous. 



TAMING A WIFE. 



Juliana. — That's certain ! 

Duke. — Then for servants, all agree, 

They are the greatest plagues on earth. 

Juliana. — N° doubt on'l I 

Duke. — Who, then, that has a taste for happill 

Would live in a large mansion, only fit 

To be an habitation for the winds ; 

Keep gilded ornaments for dust and spiders; 

See every body, eare for nobod] : 

When they could live as we do? 

Juliana. — Who, indeed? 

1 )ikk. — Here we want nothing. 

Juliana. — Nothing I— Ves, one thing. 

Duke.— Indeed I What's that? 

Juliana.— Vou will be angry I 

Duke.— Nay— 

Not if it be a reasonable thing. 

Juliana. — What wants the bird, who, from his wiry prison 
Sings to the passing traveller of air 
A wistful note— that she were with them, sir 

DUKE (aside).— Umph ! What, your liberty? I see it 

now. 

We have been wedded yet a few short days — 
Let us wear out a month as man and wife ; 
If at the end on't, with uplifted hands. 
Morning and ev'ning, and sometimes at noon, 
And bended knees, you do not plead more warmly, 
Than e'er you prayed 'gainst stale virginity. 
To keep me for your husband 

Juliana.— lf I (1 ° ! 

] Jure. Then let your will be done, that seeks to part us ! 

Juliana. — 1 do implore that you will let it stand 
Upon that footing !— A month's soon past, and then — 



TAMING A WIFE, IO3 

I am your humble servant, sir. 

Duke. — Forever. 

Juliana. — Nay, I'll be hanged first. 

Duke. — That may do as well. 

Come, you'll think better on't ! 

Juliana. — By all 

Duke. — No swearing. 

Juliana. — No, no, — no swearing. 

Duke. — You have your liberty. (She goes out.) — 
(alone) But I shall watch you closely, lady, 
And see that you abuse it not. (He goes out.) 

Scene III. 

• The same ?-oom. Enter the Duke bringing in Juliana. 

Duke. — No resistance ! — For a month, at least, I am 
your husband. 

Juliana. — True ! — And what's a husband? 

Duke (puts her over to one side) . — Why, as some wives 
would metamorphose him, 
A very miserable ass, indeed ! 

Juliana. — True, there are many such. 

Duke. — And there are men, 

Whom not a swelling lip, or wrinkled brow, 

Or the loud rattle of a woman's tongue 

Or what's more hard to parry, the warm close 
Of lips, that from the inmost heart of man 
Plucks out his stern resolves — can move one jot 
From the determined purpose of his soul, 

Or stir an inch from his prerogative. 

Ere it be long, you'll dream of such a man. 

Juliana. — Where, waking, shall I see him? 

Duke. — Look on me ! 

Come, to your chamber ! 



104 TAMING a wife. 

Juliana. — 1 won't be confined 

DUKE. — Won't ! — Say you so? 

Juliana {she relents). — Well, then, I do request 
You won't confine me. 

Dike. — You'll leave me? 

Juliana. — No, indeed ! 

As there is truth in language, on my soul 
I will not leave you ! 

Dike. — You've deceived me once— 



Juliana. — And therefore, do not merit to be trusted 
I do confess it : — but, by all that's sacred, 
Give me my liberty, and I will be 
A patient, drudging, most obedient wife ! 

Duke. — Yes : but a grumbling one ? 

Juliana. — No ; on my honor, 

I will do all you ask, e'er you have said it. 

Duke. — And with no secret murmur of your spirit? 

Juliana. — With none, believe me ! 

Duke. — Have a care! 

For if I catch you on the wing again, 

I'll clip you closer than a garden hawk, {he holds up a key) 
And put you in a cage, where day-light comes not ; 
Where you may fret your pride against the bars, 
Until your heart break. [Knocking at the door.) Sec who's 
at the door ! — (She goes and opens it.) 

Enter Lopez. 
My neighbor Lopez ! — Welcome, sir ; {introducing her) my 

wife — 
(To Juliana.) A chair ! (She brings a chair to Lope* and 

throws it down.) Your pardon — you'll excuse her, 
sir — 
A little awkward, but exceeding willing. 



TAMING A WIFE. IO5 

One for your husband ! — (She brings another chair, and is 
going to throw it down as before ; but as the Duke 
looks steadfastly at her, she desists, and places it 
gently by him.) 
Pray be seated, neighbor ! 
( To her) Now you may serve yourself. 

Juliana. — I thank you, sir, 

I'd rather stand. 

Duke. — I'd rather you should sit. 

Juliana. — If you will have it so — (aside) — 'Would I were 
dead ! (She brings a chair, and sits down.) 

Duke. — Though now I think again, 'tis fit you stand, 
That you may be more free to serve our guest. 

Juliana. — Even as you command. (Rises.) 

Duke. — You will eat something? (To Lopez.) 

Lopez. — Not a morsel, thank ye. 

Duke. — Then you will drink? — A glass of wine, at least? 

Lopez. — \yell, I am warm with walking, and care not if I 
do taste your liquor. 

Duke. — You have some wine, wife? 

Juliana. — I must e'en submit ! (She goes out.) 

Duke. — This visit, sir, is kind and neighborly. 

Lopez. — I came to ask a favor of you. We have to-day 
a sort of merry-making on the green hard by — 'twere 
too much to call it a dance — and as you are a stranger 
here — 

Duke. — Your patience for a moment. 

Re-enter Juliana with a small pitcher of liquor. 
Duke (taking it). — What have we here? 
Juliana. — 'Tis wine — you called for wine ! 

Duke. — And did I bid you bring it in a nut-shell ? 
Lopez. — Nay, there is plenty ! 



iu6 TAMING a w 11 I . 

Duke. — I can't suffer it. 

You must excuse me. (To Lopez.) When friends drink 

with us, 
Tis usual, love, to bring it in a jug. 
Or else they may suspect we grudge our liquor. 
Juliana. — I shall remember. (She goes out.) 
LOPEZ. — I am ashamed to give so much trouble. 
Duke. — No trouble; she must learn her duty, sir; 
I'm only sorry you should be kept waiting. 

But you were speaking 

Lopez. — As I was saying, it being the conclusion of our 
vintage, we have assembled the lads and lasses of 
the village 

Ri -niter Juliana. 

Duke. — Now we shall do ! 
Why, what the devil's this? 

Juliana. — Wine, sir. 

Duke. — This wine? — 'Tis foul as ditch-water ! — 
Did you shake the cask ? 

Juliana (aside). — What shall I say? Yes, sir. 

Duke. — You did? 

Jui iana. — I did. ' 

Dike. — I thought so ! 
Why, do you think, my love, that wine is physi< . 

That must be shook before 'tis swallowed? 

Come, try again ! 

Juliana. — I'll go no more ! (J'uts down the wine on the 
ground.) 

Duke. — You won't? 

Juliana. — I won't ! 

Duke. — Vou won't? (He shows key*) 
You had forgot yourself, my love. 



TAMING A WIFE. 107 

Juliana. — Well, I obey ! {Takes up the wine, and goes 
out.) 

Duke.— Was ever man so plagued ! 
I am ashamed to try your patience, sir ; 
But women, like our watches, must be set 
With care to make them go well. 

Enter Juliana, 

Ay, this looks well ! {He pours some out 

Juliana. — The heavens be praised ! 

Duke.— Come, sir, your judgment? 

Lopez. — 'Tis excellent ! — But, as I was saying, to-day we 
have some country pastimes on the green. — Will it 
please you both to join our simple recreations? 

Duke. — We will attend you. Come, renew your draught, 
sir ! 

Lopez. — We shall expect you presently ; till then, good 
even, sir ! 

Duke. — Good even, neighbor. {Lopez goes out.) Go 
and make you ready. 

Juliana. — I take no pleasure in these rural sports. 

Duke. — Then you shall go to please your husband. Hold ! 
I'll have no glittering gewgaws stuck about you, 
To stretch the gaping eyes of idiot wonder, 
And make men stare upon a piece of earth 
As on the star-wrought firmament — She's adorned 

Amply, that in her husband's eye looks lovely 

The truest mirror that an honest wife 
Can see her beauty in ! 

Juliana. — I shall observe, sir. 

Duke. — I should like to see you in the dress 
I last presented you. 

Juliana. — The blue one, sir? 



[OS 1AMIM. A WIFE. 

Hi ice. — No, love, the white. — Go modestly attired, 

An half-blown rose Stuck in thy braided hair, 

With no more diamonds than those eyes are made 

NO deeper rubies than compose thy lips. 

Nor pearls more precious than inhabit them, 

With the pure red and white, which that same hand 

Which blends the rainbow, mingles in thy che< 

Thou'lt fix as much observance, as chaste dames 

Can meet without a blush. 

I'll trust her with these bumpkins. None save myself 

Shall buz his praises in her ear. (//< goes on/.) 

Scene IV. 
The cottage. Two chairs. J r liana sits at tier needle. The 
Duke steals in behind, 

Duke. — Come, no more work to-night : (sits by her ) it is 
the last 
That we shall spend beneath this humble roof. 
Our fleeting month of trial being past, 
To-morrow you are free. 

Juliana. — Nay, now you mock me, 

And turn my thoughts upon my former tollies. 
You know that, to be mistress of the world, 
I would not leave you. 

Dire. — No? 

Juliana. — No, on my honor. 

DUKE.— I think you like me better than you did : 
And yet 't is natural. Come, come, be honest ; 
You have a sort of hankering no wild wish, 
No vehement desire — yet a slight longing, 
A simple preference, if you had your choice, 

To be a duchess, rather than a wife 

Of a low peasant? 



TAMING A WIFE. IO9 

Juliana. — No, indeed : sometimes in my dreams, I own, — 
You know we cannot help our dreams ! — 

Duke. — What then ! 

Juliana. — Why, I confess, that sometimes, in my dreams, 
A noble house and splendid equipage, 
Diamonds and pearls, and gilded furniture, 
Will glitter, like an empty pageant, by me ; 
And then I am apt to rise a little feverish. 
But never do my sober waking thoughts, — 
As I'm a woman worthy of belief — 
Wander to such forbidden vanities. 
Yet, after all it was a scurvy trick — 
Your palace and your pictures, and your plate ; 
Your fine plantations, your delightful gardens, 
That were a second Paradise — for fools ; 
And then your grotto, so divinely cool ; 
Your Gothic summer-house, and Roman temple 
'Twould puzzle much an antiquarian 
To find out their remains. 

Duke. — No more of that ! 

Juliana. — You had a dozen spacious vineyards, too ; 
Alas ! The grapes are sour ; — and, above all, 
The Barbary courser that was breaking for me. 

Duke. — Nay, you shall ride him yet. 

Juliana. — Indeed ! 

Duke. — Believe me, 

We must forget these things. 

Juliana. — They are forgot ; {she rises and kisses him) 
And, by this kiss, we'll think of them no more, 
But when we want a theme to make us merry. 

Duke. — It was an honest one, and spoke thy soul ! 
And by the fresh lip and unsullied breath, 
Which joined to give it sweetness — 



I IO IA.M1N<: A "All I . 

Enter BALTHAZAR in excitement. 

JULIANA {crosses). — How ! My hither ! 

Duke. — Signior Balthazar ! You arc welcome, sir, 
To our poor habitation. 

BALTHAZAR. — Welcome! Villain, 

I come to call your dukeship to account, 
And to reclaim my daughter. {She stands between //tew.) 

Duke {aside). — You will find her 

Reclaimed already, or I have lost my pains. 

Balthazar. — Let me come at him ! 

Juliana. — Patience, my dear father I 

Duke. — Nay, give him room. Put up your weapon, sir — 
'T is the worst argument a man can use ; 
So let it be the last. As for your daughter, 
She passes by another title here, 
In which your whole authority is sunk — 
My lawful wife. 

Balthazar. — Lawful ! — his lawful wife ! 
I shall go mad. Did not you basely steal her 
Under a vile pretense? 

Duke. — What I have done 

I'll answer to the law. 
Of what do you complain? 

Balthazar. — Why, are you not 

A most notorious, self-confessed impostor? 

Duke. — True ; 1 am somewhat dwindled from the state 
In which you lately knew me : nor alone 
Should my exceeding change provoke your wonder ; 
You'll find your daughter is not what she was. 

BALTHAZAR. — How, Juliana? 

JULIANA. — "I" is, indeed, most true : 

I left you, sir, a froward, foolish girl, 
But 1 have learned this truth indelibly — 



TAMING A WIFE. Ill 

That modesty in deed, in word, and thought, 
Is the prime grace of woman ; and with that, 
More than with frowning looks and saucy speeches, 
She may persuade the man that rightly loves her. 

Balthazar. — Amazement ! Why, this metamorphosis 
Exceeds his own ! What spells, what cunning witch-craft 
Has he employed? 

Juliana. — None : he has simply taught me 
To look into myself ; impressed my heart, 
And made me see at length the thing I have been, 
And what I am, sir. 

Balthazar. — Are you then content 
To live with him ? 

Juliana. — Content? I am most happy ! 

Balthazar. — Can you forget your crying wrongs ? 

Juliana. — Not quite, sir ; 

They sometimes serve to make us merry with. 

Balthazar. — How like a villain he abused your father ? 

Juliana. — You will forgive him that, for my sake. 

Balthazar. — Never ! 

Duke. — Why, then 'tis plain you seek your own revenge, 
And not your daughter's happiness. 

Balthazar. — No matter. 

I charge you, on your duty as my daughter, 
Follow me ! 

Duke. — On a wife's obedience, 
I charge you, stir not ! 

Juliana. — You, sir, are my father ; 
At the bare mention of that hallowed name, 
A thousand recollections rise within me, 
To witness you have ever been a kind one : 
This is my husband, sir ! 

Balthazar. — Thy husband ; well *- 



[12 TAMING a wife. 

JULIANA. — 'Tis fruitless now to think upon the means 
He used — 1 am irrevocably his : 
And, by adoption, 1 am bound as strictly 
To do his reasonable bidding now, 
As once to follow yours. 

DUKE {aside). — Most excellent ! 

Balthazar. — Vet I will be revenged '. 

Duke {to Balthazar). — You would have justice? 

Balthazar. — I will. 

DUKE. — Then forthwith meet me at the duk 

Balthazar. — What pledge have I for your appearance 
there ? 

Duke. — Your daughter, sir. — {she protests) — Nay, go, my 
Juliana ! 
'Tis my request : — within an hour at farthest, 
I shall expect to see you at the palace. 

Balthazar. — Come, Juliana. — You shall find me there, sir. 

Duke. — Look not thus sad at parting, Juliana ; 
All will run smooth yet. 

Balthazar. — Come ! 

Juliana. — Heaven grant it may ! 

Duke. — The duke shall right us all, without delay. {Bal- 
thazar and Juliana go out on one side ; the Duk< 
the other.) 

Scene V. 

The Judgment hall of the Duke's Palace. A State Chair is 
placed on a raised platform. Enter Campillo, the 
1 )i ke's Steward and Pi dro. 
Pedro. — But can no one tell the meaning of the fancy? 
Campillo. No: 'twas the Duke's pleasure, and that's 
enough for us. I found again to-day the writing which 
he sent. These were his words: 



TAMING A WIFE. 113 

" For reasons, that 1 shall here communicate, it is neces- 
sary that Jaquez should, in all things, at present, act 
as my representative ; you will, therefore, command 
my household to obey him as myself, until you hear 
further fro7n 

(Signed) Aranza." 

Pedro. — Well, we must wait the upshot. But what think 
you of the way that Jaquez bears his new dignity? 

Campillo. — Like most men in whom sudden fortune 
combats against long established habit. {Laughing without^) 

Pedro. — That must be he. 

Campillo. — Stand aside and let us note him. {Pedro 
goes out with Cajnpillo^) 

Enter Jaquez, dressed as the Duke, followed by six atten- 
dants, who struggle in vain to restrain their laughter. 

Jaquez. — You ragamuffins, show your grinders again and 
I'll hang you like onions, fifty on a rope. — Here, I'll not 
have you round me. — Leave me, get out. I'll be alone. — 
(They go off) — I begin to find, by the strength of my nerves 
and the steadiness of my countenance that I was certainly 
intended for a great man. It will be rather awkward to 
resign ; but still the month is now quite gone and like other 
great men in office I will retire with a good grace, to avoid 
being turned out — as a well-bred dog always walks down 
stairs, when he sees preparations on foot for kicking him 
into the street. 

Enter Campillo hastily. 

Campillo. — Jaquez, the Duke is here and calls for you. 
Jaquez. — What, so quick? {He scrambles out, followed 
by Ca?npillo.) 



i 14 TAMING a wii i.. 

Enter Balthazar and Juliana, preceded by l'i di 

BALTHAZAR. — You'll tell his highness, I am waiting for him. 

Pedro.- What name? 

Balthazar. — No matter ; tell him an old man, 
Who has been basely plundered of his child, 
And has performed a weary pilgrimage 
In search of justice, hopes to find it here. 

l'i DRO. — 1 will deliver this. [Exit Pedro.) 

BALTHAZAR. — And he shall right me ; 

Or I will make his dukedom ring so loud 
With my great wrongs, that — 

I ri [ANA. — Pray, be patient, sir. 

Balthazar.— Where is your husband? 

Juliana. — He will come, no doubt. 

Enter Pedro. 

Balthazar. — What news, sir? 

Pedro. — The Duke will see you presently. 

Balthazar. — Tis well ! 
Has there been a man here to seek him lately ? 

Pedro. — None, sir. 

Balthazar. — A tall, well-looking man enough, 
Though a rank knave, dressed in a peasant's garb? 

l'i DRO. — There has been no such person. 

Balthazar. — No, nor will be ! 

It was a trick to steal off quietly, 
And get the start of justice. He has reach'd, 
Ere this, the nearest sea-port, or inhabits 
One of his air-built castles. ( Trumpets and Kettle-Drums.) 

Pedro. — Stand aside : 

Enter Hie Duke, superbly dressed t preceded by I tQURZ, and 
followed by attendants ^ and six Ladies. 
Duke, — Now, sir, your business with me? 



TAMING A WIFE. 115 

Balthazar.— How ? 

Juliana. — Amazement ! 

Duke.— I hear you would have audience. 

Jaquez {aside) . — Exactly my manner ! 

Balthazar. — Of the duke, sir ! 

Duke. — I am the duke. 

Balthazar.-— The jest is somewhat stale, sir. 

Duke. — You'll find it true. 

Balthazar. — Indeed ! 

Jaquez {aside) .—Nobody doubted my authority. 

Juliana {aside). — Be still, my heart ! 

Balthazar. — I think you would not trifle with me now. — 

Duke. — I am the duke Aranza. 
And, what's my greater pride, this lady's husband ; {crosses 
to Juliana, takes her hand, and leads her forward) 
Whom, having honestly redeem 'd my pledge, 
I thus take back again. You now must see 
The drift of what I have been lately acting, 
And what I am. And though, being a woman 
Giddy with youth and unrestrained fancy, 
The domineering spirit of her sex 
I have rebuked too sharply; yet 'twas done, 
As skilful surgeons cut beyond the wound, 
To make the cure complete. 

Balthazar. — You have done most wisely, 

And all my anger dies in speechless wonder. 

Jaquez {aside). — So does all my greatness ! 

Duke. — What says my Juliana? 

Juliana. — I am lost, too, 

In admiration, sir ; my fearful thoughts 
Rise, on a trembling wing, to that rash height 
Whence, growing dizzy once, I fell to earth. 
Yet since your goodness, for the second time, 



Il6 TAMING A WIFE. 

Will lift me, though unworthy, to that pitch 

Of greatness, there to hold a constant flight, 

I will endeavor so to bear myself 

That in the world's eye, and my friends' observance — 

And, what's far dearer, your most precious judgment — 

I may not shame your dukedom. 

Duke. — Bravely spoken. 

Why, now you shall have rank and equipage — 
Servants, for you can now command yourself — 
Glorious apparel, not to swell your pride, 
But to give lustre to your modesty. 
All pleasures, all delights, that noble dames 
Warm their chaste fancies with, in full abundance 
Shall flow upon you ; and, you too, shall ride 
That Barbary courser. — For a gentle wife 
Is still the sterling comfort of man's life ; 
To fools a torment, but a lasting boon 
To those who wisely keep their Honey-Moon. 

CURTAIN. 



THE PRAIRIE PRINCESSES. 



CHARACTERS. 

Lou Dayton, a Chicago belle. 

Madge Dayton, her younger irrepressible sister. 

Dick Majendie, their cousin, who lives in London. 

Duchess of Diddlesex, a large, dignified lady, of great polite- 
ness and conventionality . 

Lady Fanny, her daughter, a silent young person. 

Lord Algernon Penryhn, her son, a still more silent young 
person. 

A Footman. 

Situation. — Lady Fanny writes an invitation to Miss Lou 
Dayton and her sister Madge to dine at Diddlesex 
Castle. At the same time she writes to her sister-in- 
law, Sophie, to come to the dinner and rescue herfroin 
Choctaw Princesses. By mistake the Daytons receive 
the letter intended for Sophie. 

So Lou and Madge plot to appear in Mexican cos- 
tume and to act like real prai7'ie savages. They dress 
in brilliant colois — short skirts } bright sashes, black 
lace stockings, short scarlet jackets, showing white silk 
shirts. They carry a dagger and a pistol at the waist, 
and a large fan in the hand ; and Madge has a short 
riding whip. On their heads are light pieces of lace 
or gauze as mantillas. They always act with boldness 
and assurance. 

ii7 



Il8 THE PRAIRIE PRINCESSES. 

Their cousin, Dick Majendie, at first objects to th( 
scheme; but finally relents and surprises his cousins b\ 
appearing in his Mexican costume. He weais a wide 
sombrero, a buckskin suit, negligee shirt, red sash at 
waist, and carries a pistol and knife in his belt. 

Lord Algernon cai-ries a monocle, which he stares 
through in the most idiotic fashion. 

The dialogue takes place i?i London in the richly 
furnished drawing-room of Diddlesex Castle, 

Enter the Duchess, followed by Lord Algernon and Lady 
Fanny, all in full-dress. 

Lady Fanny {wearily). — I wish Sophie would come be- 
fore those Americans arrive. 

Duchess. — Have you sent word to her? 

Lady Fanny. — Yes ! I wrote to come to rescue me out 
of the hands of two Choctaw Princesses from the West. 

Duchess. — My dear, you must treat them with courtesy 
for the sake of your brother Howard. They entertained 
him in America, you know, for three months, and since he 
has gone to Norway every letter refers to their visit here. 

Lady Fanny. — Mamma, where do they come from? Is 
it Detroit, or Kalamazoo, or Chicago? 

Duchess {complacently). — I do not remember precisely 
which is their native village. 

Lady Fanny. — These veneered savages in Worth gowns 
are so uninteresting 

Enter Footman. 

Footman {advances, bows). — Mr. Majendie. 

Enter Dick Majendie, with a swagger. He passes foot- 
man, bows low to the group, who look at him in sur- 
prise. 



THE PRAIRIE PRINCESSES. II9 

Duchess [eying him through her glass). — Mr. — er — Mr. 
Majendie ! 

Lady Fanny. — Or one of Tussaud's wax works. 

Lord Algernon [staring hard through his monocle) . — 
By Jove ! 

Dick {bowing again). — Dick Majendie, as much at your 
service as ever, Duchess. I have merely returned to my 
native costume. I saw my American cousins this morn- 
ing 

Lady Fanny [turning away). — Ah, that explains. 

Dick (turning quickly) . — I beg your pardon. You 
said 

Lady Fanny. — Nothing, Mr. Majendie. You are quite 
mistaken. 

Dick (he bows and turns to Duchess). — Consider me, 
Duchess, as a victim to 

Enter Footman, with cards, which he hands to the Duchess 
with a bow. 

Duchess (she looks at them in horror, and hands them to 
Dick). — How very extraordinary! Perhaps you can ex- 
plain these — er — singular names, Mr. Majendie? 

Dick (reads aloud). — "Lightning Lou, nee Dayton; 
Mashing Madge, nee Dayton." 

Lord Algernon. — By Jove ! 

Lady Fanny. — Doubtless another American peculiarity. 

Dick (aside). — Spiteful little creature ! (Aloud). Pre- 
cisely, as you say, another American custom. Perhaps we 
should not presume to have ways of our own ; but if you 
find us very barbarous, remember that we cannot all be 
born in England, you know. 

Lady Fanny (to her brothei'). — He never was so disagree- 
able before. It is all the doing of those intolerable Amer- 
ican cousins. I know it. 



120 THE PRAIRIE PRINCESSES. 

Lord Algernon. — By Jove ! 

Footman (announces loudly'). — "Lightning Lou, nee 
Dayton ; Mashing Madge, nee Dayton." 
Dick (coming down one side) . — Ye Gods ! 

Enter Lou and Madge. 

Lou (advanci7ig, assured and condescending). — The 
Duchess of Diddlesex, I presume. So glad to meet you, 
and your sister. (Glances at Lady Fanny .) No, daughter, 
is it not? Though we hardly thought we could spare time 
to come to you. There is so much else that is really inter- 
resting. (Fans herself and stares hard.) 

Lord Algernon. — By Jove ! 

Lady Fanny. — What savages ! 

Dick (laughing aside). — One for the Duchess. 

Madge (turns abruptly). — Walk light, there, Lou. Of 
course the Duchess knows how it is herself. But (to 
Duchess), as I told Lou, we had heard so much of you from 
Howard. 

Duchess. — Howard ? 

Madge. — Yes, Howard! He is your son, isn't he? 
Howard Diddlesex. And he talked so much about you and 
the old gentleman 

Duchess. — The old gentleman ! 

Dick (coming forward) . — My cousin means the duke, I 
fancy. (Lou and Madge look at Dick and start.) 

Lou (aside to him). — You are a dear good fellow ! 

Madge. — Your cousin, Dick Majendie, means, as she 
generally does, just about what she says. And as I was 
saying, Duchess, I told Lou we'd just chip right in, in a 
sociable way. So you needn't trot out your company ways 
for us. (Lou and Dick laugh aside.) 

Duchess. — Company ways ! Chip right in ! I do not 
quite follow. 



THE PRAIRIE PRINCESSES. 12 1 

Lou. — Oh, Duchess, you must pardon my little sister's 
school-girl slang ; she is only fourteen, you know. 

Lord Algernon {staring hard through his monocle). — 
By Jove ! 

Lady Fanny. — Only fourteen ; nonsense ! 

Madge {giving a skip) . — Good-sized girl, ain't I ! {Lady 
Fanny turns disdainfully aiuay. Dick draws Madge's arm 
protectingly through his.) 

Lou {fanning herself and eying Lord Algernon with 
marked courtesy). — Only fourteen, I assure you, Duchess, 
and, as you see, irrepressible. Indeed, that is why we 
came abroad, she had so many love affairs. 

Duchess {horror-struck). — So many love affairs ! A girl 
of fourteen ! Are such things possible in your country ? 

Lady Fanny {aside). — The East Indian savages marry 
at nine years of age. 

Madge. — You bet they are, Duchess. {Skips over to her 
side.) Why, ma and pa were regularly rattled. They cal- 
culated I was to marry Jack Peyton. So I was, only (she 
pokes the Duchess with her fan) ma said I might come over 
here, and pa promised me a diamond necklace that should 
lay all over Flossie Skegg's. — I mean her last one, that she 
does her marketing in. 

Duchess. — I do not comprehend. What is doing her 
marketing? 

Lou. — Why, ordering in the meat for dinner, and the 
garden sass, green things, milk, and eggs, you know. 
{Aside to Dick.) How was that, Dick? Madge out- 
shines me in this line. 

Lady Fanny. — And you order groceries and — truck — in 
diamonds ? 

Madge {impatiently). — We order groceries in paper bags ; 
but we certainly wear our diamonds when we do it, if that 



122 THE PRAIRIE PRINCESSES. 

is what you mean. No lady in Chicago would go shopping 
in less than $1,500 worth of diamonds. 

Lord Algernon. — Oh, by Jove ! 

Lou {turning sharply on hint). — An excellent country for 
penniless younger sons to marry in. 

Lady Fanny {aside). — Insolent creature ! 

Lord Algernon {struggles with a speech, opens his mouth, 
shuts it, says again). — By Jove ! 

Duchess {courteously to Madge). — I noticed you were 
looking at that little copy of Michael Angelo's 

Madge. — Michael Angelo. Oh, yes, I know. He 
painted that portrait of E. P. Strong; you know, Lou, 
Strong, the pork-packer. 

Duchess. — Oh ! ah ! doubtless another person {Lou in- 
terrupts her by singing a refrain from some popular song. 
Duchess stops in marked manner ; draws herself up.) 

Lou {speaking over her shoulder) . — Excuse me, Duchess ; ' 
but, you see, we are untrammelled children of the West. 
Prairie Princesses, as it were. {She glances at Lady Fanny, 
who starts.) I am afraid we shock you. 

Duchess {courteously) . — Oh, not at all. But may I show 
you some of my paintings ! Here is a prairie scene that 
may interest you. 

Lou {skips up, hooks her arm within the Duchess's). — 
Prairie ! I should smile ! Just say prairie, and I am all 
there. You understand, a prairie gets me. ( The Duchess 
conducts her very politely out. Dick and Lord Algernon 
converse at one side. Madge in the centre stands contem- 
plating Lady Fanny who is seated on the other side.) 

Madge. — Are you ill? 

Lady Fanny. — Certainly not. 

Madge. — Have you any broken bones? 

Lady Fanny {haughtily). — 1 do not understand you. 



THE PRAIRIE PRINCESSES. 1 23 

Madge {swaggeiing about). — I daresay. You English 
are a sort of kitchen nation. You know all about eating, 
running country-houses, keeping weekly accounts, making 
rich marriages, and stamping on poor people. 

Dick {crossing). — For Heaven's sake, Madge 

Madge. — All right, Dick ; it's not her fault, I know, if 
she was born an English girl. But do you always sit like 
this {imitates Lady Fanny's rigid pose) and look like this? 
{Jumps up.) Isn't there any girl in you? 

Dick {aside). — It's coming. There will be a pitched 
battle, and I, as the neutral party, shall be the victim, and 
taken away in sections. 

Lady Fanny. — Perhaps not, as you understand it. 

Madge. — But do you never snap your fingers, and jump, 
and run {suits action to word), and speak out and up, and 
go in for fun generally ? {She dances about.) 

Lady Fanny {stiffly). — I hope not. 

Madge. — She hopes not. {Laughs heartily.) She hopes 
she's a petrified fish. It's too much for me. You talk to 
her, Dick, until Lou comes back; she makes me tired. 
{Aside.) I really did not know I could be so rude and 
slangy. {She goes toward Lord Algernon, while Dick 
crosses to Lady Fanny. The Duchess and Lou enter?) 

Lou {talking eagerly). — Buffaloes ! buffaloes ! Why, they 
are as thick in Chicago as — let me see — as flies; aren't 
they, Dick? 

Dick. — What? Buffaloes in Oh ! ah? Yes, certainly. 

Quite so. {Madge becomes convulsed with laughter behi?id 
her fan.) 

Duchess. — I wonder you live where there are such 
dangers. 

Lou. — Dangers? Not at all. It's delightful. Chicago's 
no {with an effort) — no slouch of a city. 



124 THE PRAIRIE PRINCESSES. 

Madge (aside to Dick). — Poor Lou ! She finds it hard — 
the elegant Miss Dayton, noted for her perfect manners. 
I must go to the rescue. (To Duchess.) Delightful ! I 
should think so ! There is no fun in the world up to a 
buffalo hunt. We were on one just before we came here, 
Lou and I. 

Lord Algernon. — By Jove ! 

Dick. — You confound me ! 

Madge (walking up and down, and slashing a little riding- 
whip she has taken from her belt). — Yes ; just before we 
sailed. We were at breakfast, seven o'clock I reckon — 
we have late breakfast at our house — when Will — er — (She 
hesitates.) 

Dick (aside to he?-). — Pajama will do. (Laughs?) 

Madge. — Will Pajama jumped in through the window, 
shouting, " Girls ! girls ! get your guns ! A Buffalo hunt ! 
Three hundred head of them at least, right outside the 
Palmer House ! " " Oh, you hire a hall ! " says Lou. (Lou 
and Dick laugh together.) And he says, " Honest Injun ! 
See for yourself. The whole Stock Exchange is after them, 
half a dozen prayer-meetings, and every clerk in every shop 
that can beg, borrow, or steal a horse. Good time to say 
howdy to the folks." 

Lady Fanny.— Say what? 

Madge (whirling on her) . — Howdy, dear. We haven't 
time to drawl out, "How do you do?" {To Duchess?) As 
I was saying, Will said, " Get your lariats." As if we were 
ever without them. (Rushing to Dick.) Tell me quick, 
where do those dreadful cowboys carry their lariats? 

Dick. — Around their necks, dear. 

Madge. — We always wear our lariats around our necks 
at home. (Dick i?i quiet convulsions of laughter.) And it 
was one jump from the breakfast-table — whiz ! bang ! — out 



THE PRAIRIE PRINCESSES. 12$ 

of the house. Ma screaming, " Girls, come back ! You'll 
get killed ! " Lou tore the door open ; I behind her on 
the run. There was Lightning, Lou's horse, and Pitchfire, 
my pony. We always keep them ready saddled, you know, 
in case we should feel like taking the town 

Duchess. — What is that? 

Lou. — Taking the town? Oh, when we feel bored, we 
ride up and down, half a dozen or so of us, giving the 
Comanche yell, and firing pistols now and then. (She 
waves her pistol in the air.) You've no idea how it wakes 
one up. 

Duchess (she starts back in horror). — I should fancy it 
might. 

Madge. — Oh, but that isn't a patch on a buffalo hunt. 
Imagine it ! Our horses are as fit as we, just mad to be 
off, whinneying and pawing. One jump to our saddles, 
and we're off. Lou's hair falls down. On we go, up one 
street down another. Shrieks, cries, whoops, yells ! Every- 
one galloping like the wind, past Annie Dickson's, around 
church corner ; men cheering and shouting, and just ahead 
a great dark, heaving, bellowing mass— the buffaloes. Then 
Lightning and Pitchfire hump themselves, we whipping and 
screaming, just as mad as everyone else. (Here Lou begins 
to gesticulate, and Dick gives a shout, as though carried 
away by excitement ; both follow Madge's descnption with 
appropriate gestures.) Out goes the lariat 

Dick.— Hi ! hi ! Steady ! 

Madge. — Straight as a shot, pliable as a rope ; turning, 
twisting, drawing, pulling, and he is down on his knees 
helpless, the biggest buffalo of the herd. That was my 
cast, and that is what / call living. 

Dick (aside). — Bravo, Madge ! You're a positive genius. 

Lady Fanny (aside). — For a Comanche — yes. 



126 THE PRAIRIE PRINCESSES. 

Lou. — Don't be startled, Duchess, my little sister is so 
impulsive ; but then we are all so excitable on the subject 
of — er — buffaloes ; they take the place of foxes with us, 
with the added zest of danger. Of course, very few girls 
make such a ten-strike as Madge ; and you bet pa is proud 
of it. He had the buffalo's horns cased in gold, tipped 
with sapphires, engraved with Madge's name, the date, etc., 
and hung up in the hall. 

Duchess. — And you mean to say these monsters are often 
seen in the very streets of Chicago? Where do they come 
from ? 

Dick. — They come from St. Louis generally, a sort of 
suburb of Chicago. {Laughs to Lou.) That is the reason 
the girls go heeled. 

Duchess. — Heeled ! What is that? 

Madge {tapping her weapons). — Armed, he means. Any 
time you are out shopping, you may see a hundred head of 
buffaloes tearing down the avenue, trampling everything 
flat before them. No stops for refreshments ; so it is well 
to be ready. 

Duchess. — Horrible ! And to think that Howard re- 
mained there three months ! 

Lou. — That is the reason all the nurses in Chicago are 
men ; no female could get a child out of the way in time. 
It is all a smart man can do to get the children safely to 
and from the City Playground, where they are obliged to 
play by law. 

Duchess. — Play by law? 

Madge. — Why, of course ; even our aldermen could not 
allow the little innocents to play about streets, door-steps, 
or gardens liable to be stamped by buffaloes at any mo- 
ment. (Dick goes off in a wild fit of laughter.) 



THE PRAIRIE PRINCESSES. 1 27 

Duchess {severely). — I see no reason for mirth. {She 
shudders?) It must be a dreadful country. 

Lady Fanny. — It is strange Howard said nothing of this. 

Lou {innocently) . — Didn't he? That is odd indeed. 

Madge. — Oh, come off, Lou ! I'm dead tired of all this 
talking, and besides 

Lou. — Yes, of course ; we are expected to show up at 
Lady Monteith's. 

Duchess. — Lady Monteith's, young ladies, when you dine 
with me, and dinner is about to be announced? 

Madge {dropping her burlesque manner). — I am sure 
you will pardon us, Duchess, but we are saYages, you know, 
and only eat bread and salt with our well-wishers, not to 
mention that we shall hardly have time to get into proper 
dinner-gowns and drive to Lady Monteith's. 

Duchess.— I do not comprehend you, Miss Dayton. 

Madge. — It is very simple, Duchess. You, or perhaps 
I should say your daughter, Lady Fanny, preferred some- 
thing in the Zulu or Choctaw style — prairie princesses, pure 
and simple, the. genuine American a la Buffalo Bill — and 
we have been doing our best to enact the part. 

Lou. — While Lady Monteith only expects the veneered 
savage in the Worth gown. 

Lord Algernon. — By Jove ! 

Duchess {looking at Lady Fanny).— What is all this? I 
am bewildered ! 

Lou {holding out Lady Fannys note). — If any further 
explanation is needed, this note may supply it. {To 
Duchess.) It was written apparently by Lady Fanny, and 
by an unfortunate accident enclosed, instead of an invita- 
tion to dinner, in an envelope directed to me. 

Lady Fanny {snatches note). — Good gracious ! My note 
to SopWie ! 



128 THE PRAIRIE PRINCESSES. 

Duchess. — What will Howard say? {Both girls smile, 
and courtesy low to Duchess^) 

Dick (coming forward). — Permit me also to say fare- 
well, Duchess. 

Lady Fanny. — But, Mr. Majendie, you dine with us. 

Dick {he takes off his sombrero and bows). — Pardon, my 
cousins. (Dick, Madge, and Lou retire backward to door.) 

Lord Algernon. — By Jove ! (He stares wildly about 
through his monocle. The Duchess extends her hand for 
the letter. The Americans at the door bow.) 

CURTAIN. 



THE SUFFERING OF NEHUSHTA. 



I. The Two Queens. 
II. Nehushta and Zoroaster. 
III. Priests and Pillagers. 



THE TWO QUEENS. 



Adapted from " Zoroaster," by F. Marion Crawford. 



CHARACTERS. 

Atossa, Queen of Persia — short, fair. 

Nehushta, a Hebrew Maiden, seco?id wife of Darius, King 

of Pei-sia — tall and dark. 
Women and Slave Girls in attendance on the Queen. 

Situation. — Nehushta, the most beautiful woman in the 
f world, has come to the court of Persia in company with 
her lover, Zoroaster, a captain of the guard. Queen 
Atossa, also beautiful but treacherous, conceives a 
violent passion for Zoroaster and therefore a deadly 
hatred for Nehushta. During the absence <?/"Zoroaster 
from the court for a fortnight, Atossa leads Nehushta 
to believe that Zoroaster really loves herself and so 
Nehushta accepts the king's hand in marriage. The 
ceremony occurs the very day of Zoroaster's return. 
He is greatly shocked and immediately disappears. 

129 



130 THE SUFFERING OF NEHUSHTA. 

Three years later he returns as a priest — so changed as 
to startle Nehushta, who hurries to Atossa for explana- 
tions. 

Queen Atossa with her women and slave girls is 
just putting the finishing touches to her attire for the 
evening banquet, when Nehushta appears in the door- 
way behind her. Atossa hears her and rises suddenly, 
overturning the chair on which she has bee?i sitting. 
The chair is quickly righted by a slave. 
Atossa {in cool surprise). — It is rarely indeed that the 
queen Nehushta deigns to visit her servant. Had she 
sent warning of her coming she would have been more fit- 
tingly received. 

Nehushta (after a short struggle to master her emotion). — 
We have small need of court formalities. I desire to speak 
with you alone upon a matter of importance. 

Atossa (seating herself and motioning to Nehushta to be 
seated). — I am alone. 

Nehushta (remaining standing). — You are not alone. 
Atossa. — They are not women — they are slaves. 
Nehushta. — Will you send them away? 
Atossa. — Why should I ? 

Nehushta. — You need not — I will. (Turning to the 
women.) Begone, and quickly ! (They scurry away after 
a moment y s hesitation.) 

Atossa (fiercely angry, tapping the fio or with her foot — but 
speaking in a low voice) . Strange ways you have ! 

Nehushta. — I am not come here to wrangle with you 
about your slaves. They will obey me without wrangling. 
I met Zoroaster in the gardens an hour since. 

Atossa (sneeringly) . — By a previous arrangement, of 
course? (She fastens her eye on Nehushta with a strange 
and deadly look.) 



THE SUFFERING OF NEHUSHTA. 131 

Nehushta {in a fierce low voice). — Hold your peace and 
listen to me. {She reaches for a small Indian knife in her 
girdle.) Tell me the truth. Did Zoroaster love you three 
years ago — when I saw you in his arms upon the terrace 
the morning when he came back from Ecbatana ? 

Atossa {always watching Nehushta closely). — I loved 
him. I love him yet, and I hate you more than I love him. 
Do you understand? 

Nehushta {half breathless with anger). — Speak — go on ! 

Atossa {slowly) . — I loved him, and I hated you. I hate 
you still. The letter I had from him was written to you — 
but it was brought to me. Nay — be not so angry, it was 
very long ago. Of course you can murder me, if you 
please — you have me in your power, and you are but a 
cowardly Jew, like twenty of my slave-women. I fear you 
not. Perhaps you would like to hear the end? {Nehushta 
has been slowly approaching Atossa until now Nehushta 
stands, over her. Atossa suddenly seizes the dagger.) You 
shall hear the end now and you shall not murder me with 
your Indian poisoner here. {Laughs and looks at blade.) 
I was talking with Zoroaster when I saw you upon the 
stairs, and then — oh, it was so sweet ! I cried out that he 
should never leave me again, and I threw my arms about 
his neck— his lordly neck that you so loved ! — and I fell, 
so that he had to hold me up. And you saw him. Oh, it 
was sweet ! It was the sweetest moment of my life when 
I heard you groan and hurry away and leave us ! It was to 
hurt you that I did it — that I humbled my queenliness 
before him : but I loved him ; though — and he, he your 
lover, whom you despised then and cast away for this black- 
faced king of ours — he thrust me from him, and pushed 
me off, and drove me weeping to my chamber ; and he 
said he loved me not, nor wished my love. Ay, that was 



132 THE SUFFERING OF NEHUSHTA. 

bitter, for I was ashamed — I who never was ashamed of man 
or woman. But there was more sweetness in your torment 
than bitterness in my shame. He never knew you were 
there. He never knew why you left him — he thought it 
was to wear the king's purple, to thrust a bit of gold in your 
hair ! He must have suffered — you have suffered too — 
such delicious torture, I have often soothed myself to sleep 
with the thought of it. It is very sweet for me to see you 
lying there with my wound in your heart. It will rankle long ; 
you cannot get it out — you are married to the king now, and 
Zoroaster has turned priest for love of you. I think even 
the king would hardly love you if he could see you now — 
you look so pale. I will send for the Chaldaean phy- 
sician — you might die. I should be sorry if you died, 
you could not suffer any more then. I could not give up 
the pleasure of hurting you — you have no idea how delicious 
it is. Oh, how I hate you ! ( With these last words Atossa 
rises to her feet, JVehushta, in dumb horror has shrunk back 
until she leans against the door grasping the curtain with 
one hand and pressing her heart with the other.) Shall I 
tell you more? Should you like to hear more of the truth? 
I could tell you the king — (JVehushta throws up her hands 
and presses her temples, and with a low wail flees through the 
doorway and the curtains close behind her.) She will tell 
the king. I care not — but I will keep the knife. 

CURTAIN. 



THE SUFFERING OF NEHUSHTA. 



II.— NEHUSHTA AND ZOROASTER. 



CHARACTERS. 

Nehushta, Queen of Persia. 

Zoroaster, High Priest of Persia, tall, majestic, dressed in 
priestly robes, with long white hair and beard. 

Two slave women, attendants on the Queen. 

Situation. — Nehushta, dressed in flowing robes with her 
beautiful, black hair falling over shoulders, and with a 
light tiara on her head, goes to a secluded spot in the 
garden to hold an interview with Zoroaster, in order 
to ascertain if he loves her as he once did. Zoroaster 
has the calm and majesty, of another world in his bear- 
ing and voice. He has risen above ea?-thly loves. 

Nehushta enters, preceded by a slave woi?ian who arranges 
a soft seat for her and then stands one side. Another 
slave carries a large fan which she waves over her 
mistress. Nehushta hesitates in thought a fid then turns 
to the first attendant. 

Nehushta. — Go thou and seek out the high priest Zor- 
oaster, and bring him hither quickly. ( The woman hurries 
away and Nehushta sinks down on the chair with a weary 
look of weakness. The slave returns and pauses at the door- 
way while Zoroaster enters, approaches slowly and makes a 
deep obeisance.) Forgive me that I sent for thee, Zoroaster. 

133 



134 THE SUFFERING OF XI .1 ll'Sll'l A. 

Forgive me — I have something to say which thou, must 
hear. (He stands looking at her silently but earnestly.) I 
wronged thee three years ago, Zoroaster. {She looks up at 
him.) I pray thee, forgive me I knew not what I did. 

Zoroaster. — I forgave thee long ago. 

Nehushta. — I did thee a bitter wrong — but the wrong I 
did myself was even greater. I never knew till I went and 
asked — kerf (Her eyes flash and her fingers clench ; then 
in an instant, her sad, weary look returns.) That is all — 
if you forgive me. (She turns her head away.) 

Zoroaster. — Now, by Ahura Mazda, I have indeed for- 
given thee. The blessing of the All-Wise be upon thee ! 
(He bends again and then turns away.) 

Nehushta (as she hears him step). — You loved me once. 

Zoroaster. — Ay — I loved you once — but not now. There 
is no more love in the earth for me. But I bless you for 
the love you gave me. 

Nehushta. — I loved you so well — (She suddenly j'ises and 
gazes at him with a wild, passionate look.) I love you still. 
Oh ! I love you still ! I thought I had put you away — for- 
gotten you — trodden out your memory, that I so hated I 
could not bear to hear your name ! Ah ! why did I do it, 
miserable woman that I am ! I love you now — I love you — 

I love you with my whole heart and it is too late ! (She 

sinks baek into lie)- ehair, covering her face with her hands 
and sobbing passionately. ) 

Zoroaster (He stands a moment calm and sorrowful, 
gazing on her as from another world). — Nehushta, it is not 
meet that you should thus weep for anything that is past. 
Be comforted ; the years of life are few, and you are one of 
the great ones of the earth. It is needful that all should 
suffer. Forget not that although your heart be heavy, you 
are a queen, and must bear yourself as a queen. Take 



THE SUFFERING OF NEHUSHTA. T35 

your life strongly in your hands and live it. The end is not 
far and your peace is at hand. 

Nehushta {looking up suddenly al these last words and 
sighing heavily) . — You, who are a priest and a prophet, — 
you who read the heaven as it were a book — tell me, Zo- 
roaster, is it not far? Shall we meet beyond the stars, as 
you used to tell me so long ago? 

Zoroaster {with a geiitle smile). — It is not far. Take 
courage— for truly it is not far. {He gazes earnestly into 
her eyes for a moment, then turns and goes away. A look 
of peace descends on her tired face ; she falls backward in 
her chair as her slave women come up, and she closes her 
eyes.) 

CURTAIN. 



THE SUFFERING OF NEHUSHTA. 



III.— THE PRIESTS AND THE PILLAGERS. 



CHARACTERS. 

Nehushta, as before. 

Zoroaster, as before. 

A Maiden, a little Syrian slave, attendant on Nehushta. 

A group of Priests of Persia. 

A mob of Pillagers. 

Situation — Darius the king is abse?itfro?n the capital. A 
troop of wild eastern riders swoop doiun from the hills 
on the city. Nehushta tries to give the alarm to Zo- 
roaster and thus save her beloved. This scene is their 
meeting. 

Zoroaster is standing behind the altar, on which is 
burning a small flame. The piiests stand round in 
ranks chanting in a low tone. Nehushta suddenly 
bursts in with the report that the city is assaulted. 

The curtain rises upon the Priests before the altar, with 
Zoroaster behind it, chanting. 

Priests. — Praise we the All- Wise God, who hath made 
and created the years and the ages ; 

Praise him who in the heavens hath sown and hath scat- 
tered the seed of the stars ; 

136 



THE SUFFERING OF NEHUSHTA. 137 

Praise him who moves between the three ages that are 
and that have been, and shall be ; 

Praise him who rides on death, in whose hand are all 
power and honor and glory ; 

Praise him (Nehushta enters.) 

Nehushta (rushing forward and laying one hand on 
Zoroaster's shoulder). — Zoroaster — fly — there is yet time. 
The enemy are come in thousands— they are in the palace. 
There is barely time ! 

Zoroaster (taking her hand from his shoulder) . — Go 
thou, and save thyself. I will not go. If it be the will of 
the All-Wise that I perish, I will perish before this altar. 
Go thou quickly, and save thyself while there is yet time. 

Nehushta (taking his hand in hers and looking very 
lovingly and sadly into his calm eyes). — Knowest thou not, 
Zoroaster, that I would rather die with thee than live with 
any other? I swear to thee, by the God of my fathers, I 
will not leave thee. 

Enter Syrian Maid, running, but stopped by the crowd of 
Priests. 

Syrian Maid. — There is no more time ! There is no 
more time ! Ye are all dead men ! Behold, they are break- 
ing down the doors ! (Sounds of blows from without are 
heard. Some of the priests start towards the door but are 
stopped by the maid.) Ye are dead men and there is no 
salvation — ye must die like men. Let me go to my mistress. 
(She pushes through them.) 

Nehushta (staring wildly upon the priests). — Can none 
of you save him ? 

A Priest. — We will save him and thee if we are able. 
We will take you between "us and open the doors, and it 
may be that we can fight our way out — though we are all 
slain, he may be saved. (He lays hold of Zoroaster.) 



I38 THE SUFFERING OF NEHUSHTA. 

Zoroaster (putting him back gently). — Ye cannot save 
me, for my hour is come. {He seems transfigured.) The 
foe are as a thousand men against one. Here we must die 
like men, and like priests of the Lord before His altar. 
Now therefore I beseech you to think not of this death 
which we must suffer in our mortal bodies, but to open your 
eyes to the things which are not mortal and which perish 
not eternally. For man is but a frail and changing creature. 
His life is not longer than the lives of other created things, 
and he is delicate and sickly and exposed to manifold 
dangers from his birth. But the soul of man dieth not, 
neither is there any taint of death in it, but it liveth for ever 
and is made glorious above the stars. For the stars also 
shall have an end, and the earth — even as our bodies must 
end this night ; but our souls shall see the glory of God, the 
All-Wise, and shall live. The morning cometh, after which 

there shall be no evening. (There is a crash without 

and discc>7'dant yells, then silence.) 

Nehushta {her head falls forward on Zoroaster 's breast ; 
her arms clasp him wildly, as his clasp her). — Oh, Zoroaster, 
my beloved, my beloved ! Say not any more that I am un- 
faithful, for I have been faithful even unto death, and I 
shall be with you beyond the stars for ever ! 

Zoroaster. — Beyond the stars and forever ! In the 
light of the glory of God most high ! {The besiegers rush 
in.) 

TABLEAU. 

CURTAIN. 



GENTLEMEN, THE KING! 



Adapted from a short story, by Robert Barr, entitled " Gentlemen, the King! " 



CHARACTERS. 

Rudolph, king of Alluria, tall, co?)ima?iding, honest-looking, 
with hair turning gray. 

Staumm, a count, tall, gaunt, erect, — owner of the lodge. 

Brunfels, a baron, obstinate, rough, outspoken, and brave. 

Steinmetz, ex-chancellor, crafty, fox-like, cowardly. 

Seven other lords of the realm. 

Situation. — In a rough hunting-lodge in the wilderness, 
twelve leagues from the capital of Alluria are ten men 
gathered in groups round a large oaken table. The 
7'oom is lighted by blazing logs which fill an enormous 
fire-place on one side of the room. On the opposite 
side is a bar?-el of wine. Numerous flagons are on 
the table, and on a shelf at the side are more flagons 
and some dice boxes. 

These men are the nobles of the realm, and are met 
on this exceedingly tempestuous night to discuss the 
removal of the king. 

The rising curtain discovers eight men in various groups 
about the table, talking seriously amid their flagons. 

139 



140 GENTLEMEN, THE KING ! 

Count Staumm is standing at the end of the table watch- 
ing the others. Another lord is drawing a flagon of 
wine from the barrel in the corner. 

Brunfels {bringing his huge fist down on the table, speak- 
ing in a loud, rough tone). — I tell you, I will not have the 
king killed. Such a proposal goes beyond what was in- 
tended when we banded ourselves together. The king is a 
fool, so let him escape like a fool. I am a conspirator, but 
not an assassin. 

Steinmetz {suavely, as if to calm the boistetous spirit of 
Brunfels). — It is not assassination, but justice. 

Brunfels {contemptuously). — Justice ! You have learned 
that cant word in the cabinet of the king himself, before he 
thrust you out. He eternally prates of justice ; yet, much 
as I loathe him, I have no wish to compass his death. 

Steinmetz {in a calm, argumentative tone). — If the king 
escapes he will take up his abode in a neighboring territory, 
and there will inevitably follow plots and counter-plots for 
his restoration ; thus Alluria will be kept in a constant state 
of turmoil. There will doubtless grow up within the king- 
dom itself a party sworn to his restoration. We shall thus 
be involved in difficulties at home and abroad, and all for 
what? Merely to save the life of a man who is an enemy 
to each of us. We place thousands of life in jeopardy; 
render our own positions insecure ; bring continual disquiet 
upon the state, when all might be avoided by the slitting 
of one throat, even though that throat belong to the king. 
{All look convinced except Baron Brunfels who sets down 
his flagon with a thump on the table as if to reply.) 

Staumm {conciliatingly). — Argument is ever the enemy of 
good comradeship. Let us settle the point at once, and 
finally with the dice-box. Baron Brunfels, you are too 
seasoned a gambler to object to such a mode of terminating 



GENTLEMEN, THE KING ! 141 

a discussion. Steinmetz, the law, of which you are so 
distinguished a representative, is often compared to a lot- 
tery : so you cannot look with disfavor upon a method that 
is as conclusive and as reasonably fair as the average deci- 
sion of a judge. Let us throw, therefore, for the life of the 
king. I, as chairman of this meeting, will be umpire. 
Single throws, and the highest number wins. Baron Brun- 
fels, you will act for the king, and if you win may bestow 
upon the monarch his life. Chancellor Steinmetz stands 
for the state. If he wins, then is the king's life forfeit. 
Gentlemen, are you agreed ? 

All (but Brunfels). — Agreed, agreed ! (Brunfels mutters 
under his breath until the dice-box is brought from the shelf. 
Steinmetz takes the box and is shaking it, as three stout raps 
are given on the door from without, apparently with the 
hilt of a sword. All start to their feet. The knocking is 
repeated.) 

King {outside). — Open, I beg of you. 

Staumm (approaching the door stealthily). — Who is there? 

King (still without) . — A wayfarer, weary and wet, who 
seeks shelter from the storm. 

Staumm. — My house is already filled. I have no room 
for another. 

King (with a tone of decision). — Open the door peace- 
fully, and do not put me to the necessity of forcing it. 
(All recognize the voice and turn pale. Steinmetz rises to 
his feet with terror-stricken face and chattering teeth. 
Staumm looks over his shoulder as if to ask what he is to do.) 

Brunfels (hissing in low tone). — In the fiend's name, if 
you are so frightened when it comes to a knock at the 
door, what will it be when the real knocks are upon you? 
Open, Count, and let the insistent stranger in. , Whether 
he leave the place alive or no, there are ten men here to 



142 GENTLEMEN, THE KING ! 

answer. (Staumm unbars the door. Enter the King 
wrapped in a dark eloak dripping wet. The door is barred 
again. After a moment's pause, the stranger flings off his 
cloak and hat. The conspirators all now recognize him and 
are struck speechless. He looks round the group slowly and 
then speaks firmly.) 

King. — Gentlemen, I give you good evening; and if 
Count Staumm will act as cup-bearer, we will drown all 
remembrance of a barred door in a flagon of wine ; for to 
tell the truth, gentlemen, I have ridden hard in order to 
have the pleasure of drinking with you. (He casts a glance 
of piercing intensity upon the company, and more than one 
quails before it. Staumm takes a flagon from the shelf, 
fills it at the barrel and presents it to the king with a low 
bow. The king holds it aloft.) Gentlemen, I give you a 
suitable toast. May none here gathered encounter a more 
pitiless storm than that which is raging without. {All are 
standing as the toast is announced.) I ask you to be 
seated. (He waves his hand. All sit but Brunfels. All 
fear that he will tell the king the object of the meeting.) My 
Lord of Brunfels (the king smiles), I see that I have inter- 
rupted you at your old pleasure of dicing. While request- 
ing you to continue your game as though I had not joined 
you, may I venture to hope the stakes you play for are not 
high? 

Brunfels (with a frown and a growl). — Your Majesty, 
the stakes are the highest that a gambler may play for. 

King. — You tempt me, Baron, to guess that the hazard 
is a man's soul ; but I see that your adversary is my worthy 
ex-chancellor, and as I should hesitate to impute to him 
the character of the devil, I am led to the conclusion that 
you play for a human life. Whose life is in the cast, my 
Lord of Brunfels? 



GENTLEMEN, THE KING ! 1 43 

Steinmetz {rising with indecision to his feet and speaking 
with a trembling voice) . — I beg your gracious permission to 
explain the reason of our gathering 

King {sternly). — Herr Steinmetz, when 1 desire your in- 
terference I shall call for it ; and remember this, Herr 
Steinmetz, the man who begins a game must play it to the 
end, even though he finds luck running against him. 
{Steinmetz sits down and mops his bivw.) 

Brunfels {defiantly). — Your Majesty, I speak not for 
my comrades, but for myself. I begin no game I am afraid 
to finish. We were about to dice in order to discover 
whether your Majesty should live or die. {A moan arises 
from the conspirators^) 

King {smiling again) . — Baron, I have ever chided my- 
self for loving you. Even when your overbearing, obstinate 
intolerance compelled me to dismiss you from the com- 
mand of my army, I could not but admire your sturdy 
honesty. Had I been able to graft your love of truth upon 
some of my councillors what a valuable group of advisers I 
might have gathered round me !— Enough of comedy, now 
tragedy sets in. Why am I here? Why do two hundred 
mounted and armed men surround this doomed chalet? 
Miserable wretches, what have you to say that judgment be 
not instantly passed upon you? 

Brunfels {draws his sword and rushes on the king). — I 
have this to say, that whatever may befall this assemblage, 
you at least shall not live to boast of it. 

King {he stands unmoved at motions of Brunfels whom 
Stau mm and others seize).— My Lord of Brunfels, sheath 
your sword. Your ancestors have often drawn it, but always 
for, and never against the occupant of the throne. Now, 
gentlemen, hear my decision, and abide faithfully by it. 
Seat yourselves at the table, five on each side, the dice-box 



144 GENTLEMEN, THE KING ! 

between you. You shall not be disappointed, but shall play 
out the game of life and death. Each dices with his oppo- 
site. He who throws the highest number escapes. He 
who throws the lowest, places his weapons on the empty 
chair and stands against yonder wall to be executed for 
the traitor that he is. Thus half of your company shall 
live, and the other half shall seek death with such courage 
as may be granted them. Do you agree or shall I give the 
signal ? 

All {except Brunfels, who still stands). — Agreed ! 

King. — Come, Baron, you and my devoted ex-chancellor 
were about to play when I came in. Begin the game. 

Brunfels (sits down). — Very well. Steinmetz the dice- 
box is near your hand ; throw. {Some one gathers dice, 
puts them in the box and hands it to Steinmetz, whose hand 
trembles so that he has ?io need to shake it. The dice roll 
out on the table.) 

Any or All (looking at dice) . — Eight in all. 

King. — Eight ! Now, Baron. 

Brunfels (carelessly throwing the dice into the box and 
then playing.) — Three sixes ! If I only had such luck when 
I played for money ! 

Steinmetz (his eyes bulge out from fear) . — We have three 
throws. 

King. — Not so. 

Steinmetz (springing from his chair). — I swear I under- 
stood that we were to have three chances. But it is all 
illegal, and not to be borne. I will not have my life diced 
away to please either kings or commons. (He draws his 
sword and stands in an attitude of defense.) 

King. — Seize him ; disarm him, and bind him. There 
are enough gentlemen in this company to see that the rules 
of the game are adhered to. (Steinmetz is speedily over- 



GENTLEMEN, THE KING ! 1 45 

powered, bound, and placed against the wall, where his 
writhing grows ?nore and more intense?) Count Staumm 
it is now your turn to take the box. 

Staumm (he solemnly throws the dice). — Six ! (His op- 
ponent throws and his neighbors call out, "sixteen.") Six- 
teen ! (He rises, bows to the king and then to the com- 
pany, draws his sword, breaks it over his knee and takes 
his place at the wall.) 

King. — Gentlemen, proceed. 

First Gentleman (after shaking). — Eleven ! 

Opponent. — Nine ! (He rises, draws his sword, leaves 
it on his chair and takes his place, after bowing to king.) 

Second Gentleman. — Eleven ! (He looks anxious.) 

Opponent. — Fourteen ! (Second Gentleman takes his 
place as the others have.) 

Third Gentleman. — Five ! 

Opponent. — Twelve ! (Third Gentleman takes his place, 
while the king sadly looks over the line.) 

Brunfels (shifting uneasily in his seat and looking at his 
sentenced comrades). — Your Majesty, I am always loath to 
see a coward die. The whimperings of your former chan- 
cellor annoy me ; therefore will I gladly take his place and 
give to him the life and liberty you perhaps design for me, 
if in exchange I have the privilege of speaking my mind 
regarding you and your precious kingship. 

King. — Unbind the valiant Steinmetz. — Speak your mind 
freely, Baron Brunfels. 

Brunfels (he rises, draws his sword and places it on the 
table). — Your Majesty, backed by brute force, has con- 
demned to death five of your subjects. (He points to the 
five by the wall?) You have branded us as traitors, and 
such we are, and so find no fault with your sentence. You 
for the time being have the upper hand. You have re- 



146 GENTLEMEN, THE KING ! 

minded me that my ancestors fought for yours and they 
never turned their swords against their sovereign. Why, 
then have our swords been pointed toward your breast? 
Because, King Rudolph, you are yourself a traitor. You 
belong to the ruling class, and have turned your back upon 
your order. You, a king, have made yourself a brother to 
the demagogue on the street corner. You have shorn 
nobility of its privileges, and for what? 

King. — And for what? For this : that the plowman on 
the plain may reap what he has sown ; that the shepherd on 
the hillside may enjoy the increase which comes to his flock ; 
that taxation may be light ; that peace and security shall rest 
on the land ; that bloodthirsty swashbucklers shall not go up 
and down, inciting the people to carnage and rapine under 
the name of patriotism ; that the kingdom of Alluria may live 
in amity with its neighbors, attending to its own affairs and 
meddling not with the concerns of others. This is the task 
I set myself when I came to the throne. What fault have 
you to find with the program, my Lord Baron? 

Brunfels {calmly). — The simple fault that it is the 
program of a fool. In following it you have gained the 
resentment of your nobles and have not even received the 
thanks of those pitiable hinds, the plowmen in the valley, 
or the shepherds on the hills. You are hated in cot and 
castle alike. You would not stand in your place for a mo- 
ment, were not an army behind you. Being a fool, you 
think the common people like honesty, whereas they only 
curse that they have not a share in the thieving. 

King (soberly). — The people have been misled. Had 
it been possible for me personally to explain to them the 
good that must accrue to the land where honesty rules, I 
am confident I would have had their united and undivided 
support, even though mv nobles deserted me. 



GENTLEMEN, THE KING ! 147 

Brunfels. — Not so, your Majesty ; they would listen to 
you and cheer you, but when the next orator came among 
them, promising to divide the moon and give a share to 
each, they would gather round his banner and hoot you 
from the kingdom. What care they for rectitude of govern- 
ment? They see no farther than the shining florin that 
glitters on their palm. They shrug their shoulders when 
your honesty is mentioned. And now, Rudolph of Alluria, 
I have done, and I go the more jauntily to my death that 
I have had fair speech with you before the end. 

King (he has been gazing on the floor, and now sighs, 
and looks at them sorrowfully) . — I thought until to-night 
that I possessed some qualities at least of a ruler of men. 
I came here alone among you, and although there are brave 
men in this company, yet I had the ordering of events as I 
chose to order them, notwithstanding that odds stood ten 
to one against me. I have now to inform you that the in- 
surrection so carefully prepared has broken prematurely 
out. My capital is in possession of factions, who are in- 
dustriously cutting each other's throats to settle which one 
of two smooth-tongued rascals shall be their president. 
While you were dicing to settle the fate of an already de- 
posed king, and I was sentencing you to a mythical death, 
we were all alike being involved in common ruin. I have 
no horsemen at my back, and have stumbled here blindly, 
a much bedraggled fugitive, having lost my way in every 
sense of the phrase. And so I beg of the hospitality of 
Count Staumm another flagon of wine, and either a place 
of shelter for my patient horse, left too long in the storm 
without, or else direction towards the frontier, whereupon 
my horse and I will set out to find it. 

Brunfels (seizes his sword and holds it aloft). — Not 
towards the frontier, but towards the capital ! We will 



I48 GENTLEMEN, THE KING! 

surround you, and hew for you a way through that fickle 
mob back to the throne of your ancestors. 

All {each ma?i springs for his weapon and brandishes it 
overhead). — The king ! the king ! 

King {smiling). — Not so. I leave a thankless throne 
with a joy I find it impossible to express. I am filled with 
amazement that men will actually fight for the position of 
ruler of the people. Whether the insurrection has brought 
freedom to themselves or not, the future will alone tell ; 
but it has at least brought freedom to me. I now belong- 
to myself. No man can question either my motives or my 
acts. Gentlemen, drink with me to the new president of 
Alluria, whoever he may be. {The king drinks alone.) 

Brunfels {raising his glass). — Gentlemen, the King ! 

All {raisi?ig high their glasses, while the king bows his 
head in solemn acknowledgenienf) . — The king ! 

CURTAIN. 



BEN-HUR AND IRAS. 

Adapted from " Ben-Hur," by Lew Wallace. 



CHARACTERS. 

Iras, a beautiful Egyptian woman. 

Ben-Hur, a very powerfully built young Jew. 

Situation. — Iras and her aged father have been for some 
days the guests of Ben-Hur, whom the personal charms 
of Iras have completely captivated. She is 7-eally in 
love with Messala, a hated rival of Ben-Hur in the 
great chariot-race at Antioch, and has been spying out 
the secrets of Ben-Hur's life for the use of Messala, 
who, in losing the chariot-race, lost an immense sum 
of money to Ben-Hur. 

Ben-Hur is in the room. Enter Iras. 

Iras {sharply). — Your coming is timely, O son of Hur, 
I wish to thank you for hospitality ; after to-morrow I shall 
not have the opportunity to do so. {Ben-Hur bows slightly?) 
When the game is over, the dice-players refer to their tablets 
and put a crown upon the happy winner. We have had a 
game — it has lasted through many days and nights. Why, 
now that it is at an end, shall we not see to which the 
chaplet belongs ? 

Ben-Hur {lightly) . — A man may not balk a woman bent 
on having her way. 

149 



150 BEN-HUR AND IRAS. 

Iras. — Tell me, O prince of Jerusalem, where is he, that 
son of the carpenter of Nazareth, and son not less of God, 
from whom so lately such mighty things were expected? 

Ben-Hur {impatiently). — I am not his keeper. 

Iras (with a sneer). — Has he broken Rome to pieces? 
(Ben-Hur raises his hand angrily to stop her.) Where has 
he seated his capital? Cannot I go see his throne and its 
lions of bronze? And his palace — he raised the dead; 
and to such a one, what is it to raise a golden house? He 
has but to stamp his foot and say the word and the house 
is pillared like Karnak, and wanting nothing. 

Ben-Hur (in good humor). — O Egypt, let us wait an- 
other day, even another week for him, the lions and the 
palace. 

Iras (without noticing the interruption). — And how is 
it I see you in that garb? Such is not the habit of govern- 
ors in India or vice-kings elsewhere. I saw the satrap of 
Teheran once and he wore a turban of silk and a cloak of 
cloth of gold, and the hilt and scabbard of his sword made 
me dizzy with their splendor of precious stones. I thought 
Osiris had lent him a glory from the sun. I fear you have 
not entered upon your kingdom — the kingdom I was to 
share with you. 

Ben-Hur (courteously). — The daughter of my wise guest 
is kinder than she imagines herself; she is teaching me 
that Isis may kiss a heart without making it better. 

Iras. — For a Jew, the son of Hur is clever. I saw your 
dreaming Caesar make his entry into Jerusalem. I beheld 
the procession descend the mountain bringing him. I 
heard their singing. I looked everywhere among them for 
a figure with a promise of royalty — a horseman in purple, a 
chariot with a driver in shining brass, a stately warrior be- 
hind an orbed shield, rivalling his spear in stature. I looked 



BEN-HUR AND IRAS. T51 

for his guard. It would have been pleasant to have seen a 
prince of Jerusalem and a cohort of the legions of Galilee. 
{With a look of disdai?i she laughs heartily.) I did not 
laugh. I said to myself, " Wait. In the Temple he will 
glorify himself as becomes a hero about to take possession 
of the world." I saw him enter the Gate of Shushan and 
the Court of the Women. I saw him stop and stand before 
the Gate Beautiful. There were people with me on the 
porch and in the courts. I will say a million of people all 
waiting breathlessly to hear his proclamation. The pillars 
were not more still than we. Ha, ha, ha ! I fancied I 
heard the axles of the mighty Roman machine begin to 
crack. Ha, ha, ha ! O prince, by the soul of Solomon, 
your King of the World drew his gown about him and 
walked away, and out by the farthest gate, nor opened his 
mouth to say a word ; and — the Roman machine is running 
yet! 

Ben-Hur {bows his head during the last pa7't of this long 
speech and then answers with dignity) . — Daughter of Bal- 
thasar, if this be the game of which you spoke to me, take 
the chaplet — I accord it yours. Only let us make an end 
of words. That you have a purpose, I am sure. To it, I 
pray, and I will answer you ; then let us go our several 
ways and forget we ever met. Say on ; I will listen, but 
not to more of that which you have given me. 

Iras {after scanning him caj^efully from head to foot for 
a moment) .— You have my leave— go. 

Ben-Hur. — Peace to you. {He walks away.) 

Iras {as he is passing out the door). — A word. {Ben- 
Hur stops and looks back.) Consider all I know about 
you, 

Ben-Hur {returns). — O most fair Egyptian, what all do 
you know about me ? 



152 BEN-HUR AND IRAS. 

Iras {absently}. — You are more of a Roman, son of Hur, 
than any of your Hebrew brethren. 

Ben-Hur {indifferently). — Am I so unlike my country- 
men? 

Iras. — The demi-gods are all Roman now. 

Ben-Hur. — iVnd therefore you will tell me what more 
you know about me? 

Iras. — The likeness is not lost upon me. It might in- 
duce me to save you. 

Ben-Hur. — Save me ! 

Iras {slowly and distinctly). — There was a Jew, an es- 
caped galley-slave, who killed a man in the Palace of 
Idernee. {Ben-Hur starts.) The same Jew slew a Roman 
soldier before the Market-place here in Jerusalem ; the 
same Jew has three trained legions from Galilee to seize 
the Roman governor to-night j the same Jew has alliances 
perfected for war upon Rome, and Ilderim the Sheik is one 
of his partners. {Draws near to him.) You have lived 
in Rome. Suppose these things repeated in ears we know 
of. Ah ! you change color. {He recoils as if she were a 
tiger.) You know the Lord Sejanus. Suppose it were told 
him with the proofs — or without the proofs — that the same 
Jew is the richest man in the East — nay, in all the empire. 
The fishes of the Tiber would have fattening other than 
that they dig out of its ooze, would they not? And while 
they were feeding — ha ! son of Hur ! — what splendor there 
would be on exhibition in the Circus ! Was there ever an 
artist the equal of the Lord Sejanus? 

Ben-Hur {with an enforced calmness). — To give you 
pleasure, daughter of Egypt, I acknowledge your cunning 
and that I am at your mercy. I have no hope of your 
favor. I could kill you, but you are a woman. The Desert 
is open to receive me ; and though Rome is a good hunter 



BEN-HUR AND IRAS. 153 

of men, there she would follow long and far before she 
caught me, for in its heart there are wildernesses of spears 
as well as wildernesses of sand, and it is not unlovely to the 
unconquered Parthian. In the toils as I am — dupe that I 
have been — yet there is one thing my due : who told you 
all you know about me? In flight or captivity, dying even, 
there will be consolation in leaving the traitor the curse of 
a man who has lived knowing nothing but wretchedness. 
Who told you all you know about me? 

Iras {with some sympathy). — Enough that from this 
person I gathered a handful of circumstances and from that 
other yet another handful, and afterwhile I put them to- 
gether, and w r as happy as a woman can be who has at 

disposal the fortune and life of a man whom {She taps 

the floor with her foot and looks away from him.) — whom 
she is at loss what to do with. 

Ben-Hur. — No, it is not enough, it is not enough. To- 
morrow you will determine what to do with me. I may 
die. 

Iras. — True, I had something from Sheik Ilderim as he 
lay with my father in a grove out in the Desert. The night 
was still, very still, and walls of the tent, sooth to say, were 
poor ward against ears outside listening to — birds and 
beetles flying through the air. {She smiles.) Some other 
things — bits of shell for the picture — I had from 

Ben-Hur. — Whom ? 

Iras. — The son of Hur himself. 

Ben-Hur. — Was there no other who contributed? 

Iras. — No, not one. 

Ben-Hur {with a sigh of relief). — Thanks. It were not 
well to keep the Lord Sejanus waiting for you. The Desert 
is not so sensitive. Again, O Egypt, peace ! {He turns 
to depart.) 



154 P-KN-lUR AND IRAS. 

Iras reaching out her jewelled hand). — Stay ! (He looks 
hack but does not take the hand.) Stay, and do not distrust 
me, O son of Hur, if I declare I know why the noble 
Arrius took you for his heir. ( Very earnestly.) And by 
Iris ! by all the gods of Egypt ! I swear I tremble to think 
of you, so brave and generous, under the hand of the re- 
morseless minister. You have left a portion of your youth 
in the atria of the great capital ; consider, as 1 do, what 
the Desert will be to you in contrast of life. Oh, I give 
you pity — pity ! And if you but do what 1 say, I will save 
you. That also I swear by our holy I sis ! 

Ben-Hur (hesitatingly). — Almost — almost I believe 
you. 

Iras (rapidly, with animation). — The perfect life for a 
woman is to live in love ; the greatest happiness for a man 
is the conquest of himself; and that, O prince, is what I 
have to ask of you. — You had once a friend. It was in 
your boyhood. There was a quarrel and you and he became 
enemies. He did you wrong. After many years you met 
him again in the Circus at Antioch. 

Ben-Hur. — Messala ! 

Iras (with earnest entreaty). — Yes, Messala. You are 
his creditor. Forgive the past ; admit him to friendship 
again ; restore the fortune he lost in the great wager ; rescue 
him. The six talents are as nothing to you ; not so much 
as a bud lost upon a tree already in full leaf ; but to him — 
Ah ! he must go about in a broken body ; wherever you 
meet him he must look up to you from the ground. O 
Ben-Hur, noble prince ! to a Roman descended as he is, 
beggary is the other most odious name for death. Save 
him from beggary ! 

Ben-Hur. — The appeal has been decided then, and for 
once a Messala takes nothing. I must go and write it in 



BEN-HUR AND IRAS. 155 

my book of great occurrences — a judgment by a Roman 
against a Roman ! But did he — did Messala send you to 
me with this request, O Egypt? 

Iras. — He has a noble nature, and judged you by it. 
{Her hatid is on his arm.) 

Ben-Hur {taking her hand). — As you know him in such 
friendly way, fair Egyptian, tell me, would he do for me, 
there being a reversal of the conditions, that he asks of me ? 
Answer, by Isis ! Answer, for the truth's sake ! 

Iras. — Oh ! he is 

Ben-Hur. — A Roman, you were about to say ; meaning 
that I, being a Jew, must forgive him my winnings because 
he is a Roman. If you have more to tell me, daughter of 
Balthazar, speak quickly, quickly ; for by the Lord God of 
Israel, when this heat of blood, hotter waxing, attains its 
highest, I may not be able longer to see that you are a 
woman, and beautiful ! I may see but the spy of a master 
the more hateful because the master is a Roman. Say on, 
and quickly. 

Iras {throwing off his hand and stepping back). — Thou 
drinker of lees, feeder upon husks ! To think I could love 
thee, having seen Messala ! Such as thou were born to 
serve him. He would have been satisfied with release of 
the six talents ; but I say to the six thou shalt add twenty 
— twenty, dost thou hear? The merchant here is thy 
keeper of moneys. If by to-morrow at noon he has not 
thy order acted upon in favor of my Messala for six-and- 
twenty talents — mark the sum ! — thou shalt settle with the 
Lord Sejanus. Be wise and — farewell. {She moves toward 
the door.} 

Ben-Hur {putting himself in her way). — The old Egypt 
lives in you. Whether you see Messala to-morrow or the 
next day, here or in Rome, give him this message. Tell 



J56 BEN-HUR AND IRAS. 

him I have back the money, even the six talents, he robbed 
me of by robbing my father's estate ; tell him I survived 
the galleys to which he had me sent, and. in my strength 
rejoice in his beggary and dishonor ; tell him I think the 
affliction of body which he has from my hand is the curse 
of our Lord God of Israel upon him more fit than death 
for his crimes against the helpless : tell him my mother and 
sister, whom he had sent to a cell in Antonia, that they 
might die of leprosy, are alive and well, thanks to the power 
of the Nazarene whom you so despise ; tell him that "along 
with my defiance I do not send him a curse in words, but, 
as a better expression of undying hate, I send him one who 
will prove to him the sum of all curses ; and when he looks 
at you repeating this, my message, daughter of Balthasar, 
his Roman shrewdness will tell him all I mean. Go now — 
and I will go. (He conducts her to the door with ceremo- 
nious politeness, and as she disappears, she adds.) Peace to 
you. 

CURTAIN. 



SAVONAROLA AND LORENZO. 



Adapted from a tragedy " Savonarola " by Alfred Austin, Poet Laureate. 



CHARACTERS. 

Girolamo Savonarola, Prior of St. Marks. 

Lorenzo de' Medici, Ruler of Florence. 

Situation. — Savonarola is opposed to the rule of Florence 
by any one man, and so Lorenzo is counted his enemy* 
But his religious austerities and his fiery eloquence have 
made hi?n friends and foes among the populace. So 
high is his virtue and so great his influence that Lo- 
renzo, in addition to his regular priest, summons 
Savonarola to hear his last confession. Lorenzo was 
a great patron of classical learning ; hence the reference 
to Plato. 

Savonarola was very tall and thin. Pictures of 
him may be found readily. He would, of course, be 
dressed in his flowing black priestly robes. Lorenzo is 
reclining on his couch vety near the tii?ie of his death. 

Lorenzo, having dismissed his followe7-s, on the announce- 
7iient of Savonarola is ?rcli?iing alone. 

My intimates! 
The best men ever had, but helpless now 
To hold me here or cheer me thitherward. 
Of all the company of hearts that sit 
Round our existence smiling, that not one 

157 



158 SAVONAROLA AND LORENZO. 

Should be told off to see us to the land, 
The road of which we know not ! That seems hard. 
To be alone in the full glare of life 
Lulls fear to sleep. But loneliness in death 
Might make the most intrepid spirit take 
Shadows for substance. {The door opens and Savonarola 
appears. He pauses in the doorway. Lorenzo motio?is 
to him to approach?) 

Lorenzo. — Will you approach, good Prior? 'Tis not 
from lack 
Of reverence for your habit, that I fail 
To greet you more becomingly, but death 
That glues my limbs. 

Savonarola {advancing). — No need to rise, Lorenzo, 
Heaven lays no tax of courtly ceremony ; 
But, being far more exorbitant, it claims 
Full payment of the substance from the soul. 
Why have you sent for me ? 

Lorenzo. — To readjust, 

Before I journey on, unbalanced wrongs 
That gall my conscience. 

Savonarola. — Show me them ! 

Since that it seems Plato avails not now. 
Philosophy, like any false ally, 
Comes to man's aid when need is at the least, 
To shrink away in true extremity. 
But Virtue, unaffected friend, contrives 
To pull us through, though all the fiends conspire 
To wedge us in with evil. 

Lorenzo. — I have made 

Elsewhere confession of my homelier sins. 
But those transgressions that hnve walked abroad 
In all men's eyes, I have reserved for one 



SAVONAROLA AND LORENZO. 159 

Who knows no private favor. 

Savonarola. — Then speak on ! 

Death is the looking-glass of life wherein 
Each man may scan the aspect of his deeds. 
How looks it now Lorenzo, now that God 
Holds that unflattering mirror to your soul? 

Lorenzo. — Tis hard on twenty years since, but still, 
still, 
The cry of sacked Volterra haunts my ears. 

Savonarola. — And well it may, Lorenzo ! Do you think 
Thus to divide eternity? Twenty years 
Have placed no second 'twixt your sin and you. 

Lorenzo. — I know it, Prior ; and poignantly confess 
To you and Heaven, the guilt was mostly mine. 
Endorsing claims equivocal to glut 
The yawning coffers of the State, I clutched 
A shadowy right ; the alum mines were won, 
And now the gain lies leaden on my breast 
Though bade I not the slaughter. 

Savonarola.— Hold ! We bid 

Whatever buttresses our bold designs, 
And are the architects of every wrong 
Raised o'er the ruins of demolished right. 
You cannot take before the throne of God 
The quarry of your hunting ; but the blood 
Clings to your hands. 

Lorenzo. — Seem they so very red? 

So red, contrition cannot wash them white ? 
For there is other gore that soaks my skirt 
Spilt in the usurious payment of the blow » 
Struck by the Pazzi at my life, but spilt 
Not from vindictiveness but policy. 

Savonarola. — Will policy avail to change the score 



160 SAVONAROLA AND LORENZO. 

Of the Recording Angel ? Hell is full 

Of politic expedients, condoned 

By Earth, to double their offence 'fore Heaven. 

God saved your life ; you slew your enemies. (Lorenzo 

exhibits signs of agitation^) 
Yet will He pardon even as He saved, 
So anguish in the balance lift up guilt. 
Is your confession ended ? 

Lorenzo. — Alas ! no. 
Full many an orphan maiden hath been robbed 
Of dowry guaranteed ; and virtue, shorn 
Of its substantial outbreak, hath succumbed 
To the besieger. This seems direst wrong 

Savonarola. — And is a direst wrong. The body pushed 
Out of this life precociously may find 
A better tenement. But he that fouls 
A virgin soul and leaves it to corrupt, 
Would strain God's mercy to the snapping-point, 
If it were not far-reaching as Himself. 
You must amend this injury. 

Lorenzo. — Show me how, 

And quickly will I do it. 

Savonarola. — 'Tis enough. 

Let restitution be in full ordained ; 
And, if you live, each victim ferret out 
And wed her to the cloister. 

Lorenzo. — Doing this, 

May I the Almighty Arbiter confront, 
And reckon on indulgence? 

Savonarola. — Naught that is, 

Mountain, nor sea, nor the vast atmosphere, 
Nor even man's stupendous scope of sin, 
Can get beyond the circumambient range 



SAVONAROLA AND LORENZO. l6l 

Of Divine mercy. But before my hands 
May absolution shower upon your soul, 
Three things there are first indispensable. 

Lorenzo. — What may these be? 

Savonarola. — Firstly, that you should have 

Faith in God's mercy, living faith and full. 

Lorenzo. — And that I have ; for if I had it not, 
How ill-caparisoned were I to start 
Upon this final journey ! 

Savonarola. — Next, that you 

Make reparation absolute, and lay 
This as a prior legacy on your sons, 
For lingering wrong to friend or enemy. 
To this you pawn your soul? 

Lorenzo. — My soul be bond, 
And forfeit if I fail ! 

Savonarola. — Lastly, Lorenzo, 

But mainly this of all, you must restore 
Her liberties to Florence. 

Lorenzo {starting forward o m the couch.) — Friar, hold ! 
You overstep your territory there, 
And make a raid on my dominions. 
Remember what is Caesar's. 

Savonarola. — Do I fail? 

Where did you get your empire ? Who was it gave 
The Medici on Florence that sly grip 
Which you have tightened? Nay, invoke not God ! 
For he as Caesar ne'er anointed you ; 
And, failing His anointment, show me then 
The sanction of His people. 

Lorenzo. — What I have, 
They freely gave. 

Savonarola. — They were not free to give; 



1 62 SAVONAROLA AND LORENZO. 

For you with splendor first corrupted them, 
Drugging their love of virtue, that you might 
Their love of freedom violate, and they 
The detriment discern not. 

Lorenzo. — I gave all, 

All that I have, all I inherited, 
To vivify this city, and to lift 
Her diadem of glory high above 
All cities, kingdoms, principalities, 
Lavished the substance of my House on her, 
Discriminating not which hers, which mine, 
And die with empty coffers that enriched 
The fame of Florence. Was it crime in me? 
In face of heavenly ermine will I claim, 
For that, exemption. 

Savonarola. — Pandars might as well 
Plead the foul price they pay, as you invoke 
The substance squandered on the Commonwealth, 
Whose freedom you have ravished. Well you know 
In Florence that the government of One 
Was an abomination till your Line 
Drew all the reins of rule into its hand, 
And jingling trappings of subjection laid 
Upon a pampered people. Glory ! Fame ! 
Fame is but sound ; conscience makes harmony; 
And happy he who truthfully can say, 
When the world's pagan plaudits cease, he heard 
The sacred music of a virtuous heart. 
Give Florence back her freedom ! 

Lorenzo. — She is free, 

And of her freedom made me what I am, 
And by that freedom will unmake my sons 
If they run short of wisdom. 



SAVONAROLA AND LORENZO. 1 63 

Savonarola. — Then enough ! 
And summon your attendants. (Lorenzo rings. His 

friends etiter.) You have need 
No more of me. But this, Lorenzo, mark ! 
What you refuse, that Florence swift will take, 
When your magnificence shall lie entombed, 
And God arraign you for the rights you niched, 
But could not carry with you, nor bequeath. 
Die, by my voice unshriven ! (His friends crowd round 

him. Savonarola turns to depart, but pauses, and 

gazes at Lorenzo with a look of austere menace. 

Curtain falls.) 



TITO'S ARMOR. 



Adapted from George Eliot's novel, " Romola." 



CHARACTER. 

Tito Melema, a handsome young man of dark complexion, 
of keen mind and gentle manners. 

Baliassarre, his father, a powerfully built old man, whose 
strength and power have been shattered by disease. 

Piero di C]simo, a great painter, gruff but sympathetic, and 

very keen. 
Romola, wife ^Tito, beautiful and intelligent. 

Situation. — Tito is a deceiver. He has left his father to die 
in slavery and the jewels give ?i him to purchase the old 
man's freedom have been sold for his own enrichment. 
Suddenly the old man appears in front of 'the San Marco 
Duo mo in Florence and seizes Tito, who is so terrified 
from his consciousness of guilt that he declares the man 
mad. Piero di Cosimo catches the situation and 
paints on canvas, in his studio, the two faces. Tito 
in his fear buys chain armor and puts it on under his 
tunic. 

Tito fears that Romola knows more about Baldas- 
Sarre than he wishes. She fears to ask him ; she fears 
to ask Piero more than a general question. 

These scenes are supposea to take place in Florence, 
during the last days of the life of Savonarola, at the 
close of the fifteenth century. 

164 



TITO'S ARMOR. 1 65 

Scene I. 

Romola is sitting in the library at the opposite end of which 
is a wood fire. She hears the outer door close and 
hastens to greet Tito at the library door. Enter Tito. 

Romola. — My Tito, you are tired ; it has been a fatiguing 
day : is it not true ? {She takes off his mantle and carries 
it away.) 

Tito {he pays little attention to what she says, sits 
down in a chair placed for him near the fire, tosses his cap 
into the corner). — Romola (he shudders slightly) I wish 
you would give up sitting in this library. Surely our own 
rooms are pleasanter in this chill weather. 

Romola. — I wonder you have forgotten, Tito. You 
know I am making the catalogue on the new plan that my 
father wished for ; you have not time to help me, so I must 
work at it closely. 

Tito (he closes his eyes, rubs his hands over his face 
and hair) . — I am not well, Romola ; you must not be sur- 
prised if I am peevish. 

Romola. — Ah, you have had so much to tire you to-day. 
(She kneels down close to him and lays one arm on his chest 
while she- puts his hair back caressingly with the other. 
Suddenly she draws her arm away with a look of alarmed 
inquiry). What have you got on under your tunic, Tito? 
Something as hard as iron. 

Tito (quietly). — It is iron — it is chain armor. 

Romola. — There was some unexpected danger to-day, 
then? You had it lent to you for the procession? 

Tito. — No ; it is my own. I shall be obliged to wear it 
constantly for some time. 

Romola (looking terrified). — What is it threatens you, 
my Tito? 



1 66 TITO'S ARMOR. 

Tito. — Every one is threatened in these times. Don't 
look distressed, my Romola ; this armor will make me safe 
against covert attacks. 

Romola. — But, Tito, is it a fear of some particular 
person, or only a vague sense of danger that has made you 
think of wearing this ? 

Tito. — I have had special threats, but I must beg you to 
be silent on this subject, Romola. I shall consider that 
you have broken my confidence if you mention it. 

Romola. — Assuredly I will not mention it, if you wish it 
to be a secret. But dearest Tito, it will make you very 
wretched. 

Tito {with a little alarm lest she know more than she 
should). — What will make me wretched? 

Romola. — This fear — this heavy armor. I can't help 
shuddering as I feel it under my arm. It seems so unlike 
my bright, light-hearted Tito. 

Tito. — Then you would rather have your husband ex- 
posed to danger when he leaves you? (He smiles.) If 
you don't mind my being poniarded or shot, why need I 
mind? I will give up the armor; shall I? 

Romola. — No, no, Tito. I am fanciful. Do not heed 
what I have said. But is there no more hope that things 
will end peaceably, for Florence? 

Tito (with a shrug). — Florence will have no peace 
but what it pays well for ; that is clear. 

Romola (she remains sad a nioment and then bright- 
ens). — You would not guess where I went to-day, Tito. I 
went to the Duomo to hear Fra Girolamo. (Tito starts.) 
You are surprised, are you not? It was a sudden thought: 
I want to know all about the public affairs now. 

Tito. — Well, and what did you think of the prophet? 

Romola. — He certainly has a very mysterious power, 



TITO'S ARMOR. 167 

that man. A great deal of his sermon was what I expected ; 
but once I sobbed with the rest. 

Tito {playfully) .—Take care, Romola ; you have a touch 
of fanaticism in you. I shall have you seeing visions. 

Romola. — No ; it was the same with every one else. 
He carried them all with him. There was even a wretched 
looking man, with a rope round his neck — an escaped pri- 
soner, I should think, who had run in for shelter — a very 
wild-eyed old man : I saw him with great tears rolling down 
his cheeks as he looked and listened quite eagerly. 

Tito {pausing to collect himself).— A saw the man, the 
prisoner. I was outside the Duomo with Lorenzo when he 
ran in. He had escaped from a French soldier. Did you 
see him when you came out? 

Romola. — No, he went out with our good old Piero di 
Cosimo. I saw Piero come in and cut off his rope, and 
take him out of the church. ^(Tito's horror overcomes 
him.) But you want rest, Tito? You feel ill? 

Tito (rising with a look of sickening fear) . — -Yes. (He 
goes off. She follows but turns back with a look of terrible 
doubt). 

Scene II. 

A portrait-painter 's studio,— pictures about in all stages of 
completion, but near the entrance two pictures lean 
against the side-wall, the larger concealing the smaller. 
The floor is somewhat littered with bits of wood, &c. 
Enter Piero with shdl-cap on. He goes to a canvas 
on opposite side of room and works on it. A knock, and 
enter Romola in street costume, with a small basket in 
her hand. 
Piero. — Ah ! Madonna Romola, is it you ! I thought 

my eggs were come. I wanted them. 



1 68 TITO'S ARMOR. 

Romola. — I have brought you something better than 
hard eggs, Piero. I have a little basket full of cakes and 
confetti for you. {She puts back her veil and then uncovers 
the basket.) I know you like these things when you can 
have them without trouble. Confess you do. 

Piero {folding his arms and looking down at the 
basket). — Yes, when they come to me as easily as the light 
does. — But I know what the sweetmeats are for ; they are 
to stop my mouth while you scold me. Well, you will see 
I have done something to your father's picture since you 
saw it, though it's not finished yet. But I didn't promise, 
you know ; I take care not to promise. {He crosses the 
room, takes up the large picture from before the small one 
and carries it back, scrutinizing it carefully, to the easel at 
which he was working) . 

Romola {staring in astonishment at the small picture 
which Piero has Just uncovered unintentionally). — That is 
Tito! {Piero looks round and shrugs his shoulders regret- 
fully.) What a strange picture ! When did you paint it ? 
What does it mean? {Aside.) Is Tito afraid of that old 
man? Is that why he wears armor? 

Piero {pulling off his skull-cap and scratching his head 
to conceal his vexation at his blunder) . — A mere fancy of 
mine. I wanted a handsome face for it and your husband's 
was just the thing. {He picks up the pictu?-e back to Romola 
to put it out of sight) . 

Romola. — Don't put it away; let me look again. That 
man with the rope around his neck — I saw him — I saw you 
come to him in the Duomo. What was it that made you 
put him into a picture with Tito? 

Piero. — It was a mere accident. The man was running 
away — running up the steps, and caught hold of your hus- 
band. I happened to be there and saw it, and I thought 



TITO'S ARMOR. I 69 

the savage- looking old fellow was a good subject. "But it's 
worth nothing — it's only a freakish daub of mine. {He 
casts the bit of canvas away on some high shelf.) Come 
and look at your father. 

Romola. — He was a strange piteous-looking man, that 
prisoner. Do you know anything more of him? 

Piero. — No more ; I showed him the way to the hospital, 
that's all. {He points to the portrait of her father.*) See, 
now, the face is pretty nearly finished ; tell me what you 
think of it. 

Romola {after gazing in silence some moments) . — Ah ! 
you have done what I wanted. You have given it more of 
the listening look. My dear Piero, I am very grateful to 
you. 

Piero {kicking i?npatiently objects littering the floor). — 
Now, that's what I can't bear in you women, you're always 
pouring out feelings where there's no call for them. If I 
paint a picture, I suppose it's for my own pleasure and 
credit to paint them well, eh? But women think walls are 
held together with honey. 

Romola. — You crusty Piero ! I forgot how snappish 
you are. Here, put this nice sweetmeat in your mouth, 
{She takes one out of her basket?) 

Piero. — It's good, Madonna Romola. {He puts in his 
fingers for another.) 

Romola {she sets down the basket and puts on her 
veil). — Good-bye, Piero. I promise not to thank you if 
you finish the portrait soon and well. I will tell you, you 
were bound to do it for your own credit. 

Piero. — Good. {He helps her with her mantle and she 
goes out.) 



I70 TITO'S ARMOR. 

Scene III. 

A miserable ho?>el with straw in one corner. Baldassarre 
enters distractedly and sits on a low stool a little to o?u 
side. 
Baldassarre (pulling his hand to his head). — It is gone 
— it is all gone ! And they would not believe me, because 
he lied, and said I was mad, and dragged me away. And 
I am old — (Again he puts his hand to his head.) My mind 
will not come back. — And the world is against me. (A 
pause.) He made me love him, he was beautiful and 
gentle, and I was a lonely man. They were beating me 
when I took him. He slept in my bosom when he was 
little, and I watched him grow, and gave him all my knowl- 
edge, and everything that was mine, I meant to be his. I 
had many things, money and books and gems. He had 
my gems — he sold them ; and he left me in slavery. He 
never came to seek me and now that I am come back poor 
and in misery, he denies me. He said I was a madman — 
(Another pause.) Oh if I could only find all my thoughts 
again ! / was locked away outside them all. And I am 

outside now. I feel nothing but a wall and darkness 

It all came back once. I was master of everything, I saw 
all the world again and my gems, and my books ; and I 
thought I had him in my power, and I went to expose him 
where — where the lights were and the trees ; and he lied 
again and said I was mad, and they dragged me away to 

prison Wickedness is strong ; the world is against me : 

but there is a fire within (he clutches his dagger) and it is 
the fire that works. I am not alone in the world ; I shall 
never be alone, for my revenge is with me. — (He half rises 
with his dagger in his hand.) If I might clutch his heart- 
strings forever! Come, O blessed promise ! Let my 



TITO'S ARMOR. 171 

« 

blood flow ; let the fire consume me ! — (The old man sinks 
back and there is silence?) 

Tito enters after making some noise in opening the door, 
Baldassarre staggers up and lunges at Tito with his 
dagger. It snaps against the armor and Baldassarre 
falls down and back slowly ', with a look of intense hate. 

Tito (after a pause, in a calm, insinuatitig voice). — 
Padre mio ! — I came to ask your forgiveness. (Another 
Pause. Baldassarre lies on the straw, troubling and lean- 
ing on one arm.) I was taken by surprise that morning. 
I wish now to be a son to you again. I wish to make the 
rest of your life happy, that you may forget what you have 
suffered. 

Baldassarre (He throws away his dagger and slowly, 
still trembling, begins to rise. Tito puts out his hand, 
Baldassarre clutches it, j-aises himself and still holding the 
hand, speaks close into Tito's face). — I saved you — I 
nurtured you — I loved you. You forsook me — you robbed 
me — you denied me. What can you give me? You have 
made the world bitterness to me ; but there is one draught 
of sweetness left — that you shall know agony. {He drops 
Tito's hand and goes backward catching himself as he sinks 
down again on the straw exhausted.) 

Tito, (after a pause, calmly). — Do you mean to stay 
here? 

Baldassarre (bitterly). — No, you mean to turn me 
out. 

Tito. — Not so, I only asked. 

'Baldassarre. — I tell you, you have turned me out. If it 
is your straw, you turned me off it three years ago. 

Tito. — Then you mean to leave this place? 

Baldassarre. — I have spoken. (Tito turns to leave but 



I7 2 TITO'S ARMOR. 

stops to hear Baldassarre who begins to speak as if his mind 
had wandered^) I was a loving fool — I worshipped a 
woman once, and believed she would care for me. And 
then I took a helpless child and fostered him ; and I watched 
him as he grew to see if he would care for me only a little — 
care for me over and above the good he got from me. I 
would have torn open my breast to warm him with my life 
blood, if I could only have seen him care a little for the pain 
of my wound. I have labored, I have strained to crush out 
of this hard life one drop of unselfish love. Fool ! And 
yet when he was a child he lifted soft eyes toward me and 
held my hand ; I thought this boy will surely love me a 
little; because I give my life to him and strive that he 
shall know no sorrow, he will care a little when I am 
thirsty — the drops he lays on my parched lips will be a joy 
to him. — (He turns and sees Tito still standing by the door 
and listening. He struggles to his feet.} Curses on you ! 
May I see you lie with those red lips white and dry as 
ashes. It is all a lie — this world is„a lie — there is no good- 
ness but in hate ! Fool ! Not one drop of love has come 
with all my striving. But there are deep draughts in this 
world for hatred and revenge. I have memory for that, 
and there is strength in my arm (he totters towards Tito) — 
there is strength in my will — and if I can do nothing but 
kill you (he clutches Tito's arm and glares into his face) — 
There is a moment after the thrust when men see the face 
of death — and it shall be my face that you shall see. (As 
these last words are uttered, Tito retires slowly followed by 
the old mail still clutching him until they go out.) 



LOVE CONQUERS REVENGE. 



Adapted from " The Cipher Despatch," by Robert Byr. 



CHARACTERS. 

Bertram Karst, a young man grown old and almost insane 
by brooding on the wrongs done him. 

Weddo, a large ^ powerfully-built man, husband of Grace. 

Mrs . Karst, mother of Bertram. 

Grace, {whom Bertram calls Graziella), daughter of a 
former Prime Minister. 

Situation. — Bertram, atone time accepted by Grace as a 
lover, has sworn vengeance on her father for giving her 
to Weddo. His refectio7i, however, was due to his 
father's implied cofinection with a secret act of public 
treason. Ttie real traitor is at last found to be the 
son of the Prime Minister. This fact is published and 
Bertram seeks to win Grace again, but she 7-efuses to 
get a divorce. He then in revenge plans an elope?nent 
with a lady under Grace's protection. He is expecting 
this lady when the scene opens. 

The room in which the scene takes place is very bare. 
There is a table and a chair or two, — one chair near 
the table. 

173 



174 L0VE CONQUERS REVENGE. 

Bertram enters with his overcoat on his arm, and ap- 
proaches the table. He draws from his pocket a pistol 
which he looks at carefully, then he lays it on the table, 
and throws his coat over it. He is expecting some one, 
looks at his watch, goes to the door to listen. At last, as 
he is with his back toward the door, he hears some one 
coming. He turns and takes a step to receive her in 
his arms, but starts back at the discovery that Grace 
and not Adele, has come. 

Bertram (staring in amazement, a moment).— Graziella ! 
{She has been running and cannot yet speak.) What brings 
you here? 

Grace. — Did you not expect one of the inmates of the 
castle ? 

Bertram. — But not 

Grace. — Not me — finish. 

Bertram (gloomily). — You seem to be fully initiated in 
my plans. 

Grace (nodding gravely). — I think so, even to your last 
intentions. 

Bertram (impetuously). — And through whom? Through 
whom ? Not through her ! She cannot have become irre- 
solute. Who betrayed me? 

Grace (after a moment's hesitation). — Her maid has 
confessed all that she knows. I won her. 

Bertram. — So you spy upon others, and reward treachery. 

Grace. — Why should I hesitate to do so when the honor 
and peace of my family, the happiness, and perhaps the 
life of my father, are involved? 

Bertram (stamps his foot angrily). — Your calculations 
have failed. Your greatest care will not prevent me from 
doing what I have resolved upon. Instead of to-day, to- 
morrow ; that is all the difference. I will goat once to 



LOVE CONQUERS REVENGE. I 75 

the castle and force my way in to her. Why need it be -a 
secret elopement? 

Grace. — You will not do that. 

Bertram. — Who will prevent me ? 

Grace. — I. 

Bertram {fiercely) . — And do you think you will frustrate 
me? (He comes close up to her, then grasps her arm.) Do 
you know that you are in my power? 

Grace. — You will not do so. 

Bertram. — And why not? Do you feel so safe? You 
came here yourself, and am I to let you go? I have had 
you in my power once already. Now you shall be mine 
forever— my slave ! You venture into a wolf's den, oh, 
clever lamb ; why should I not devour you ? 

Grace (shaking from head to foot, but gazing at him).*^*- 
Because you loved me— or was that, too, a lie? 

Bertram (letting his hand fall from her arm).— You ap- 
pealed to that at a wrong time. 

Grace (gently)*-^ -How could a man injure one whom, 
even in times long past, he has truly loved? 

Bertram.— How do you know that? From your own 
experience? 

Grace. — Yes. The feeling that one would fain bless an- 
other's life can never become extinct, whatever may after- 
ward happen. If you loved me 

Bertram (bitterly). — You still doubt it? 

Grace. — No, Bertram. You are not naturally evil, and 
all that you do in moments of passion will fall back upon 
yourself. No ; I know better than you do, that because 
you once loved me you can do me no harm ; but all that 
you do to my family falls upon me, each blow wounds me. 
And if you wish to inflict misery and grief upon me, have I 
not suffered enough? 



176 LOVE CONQUERS REVENGE. 

Bertram {gloomily). — Have you asked what I suffer? 

Grace. — If a balance is to be struck, I think your scale 
hangs far the lowest. You are terribly avenged. Could 
you see my poor father, your thirst for revenge would be 
satisfied, — the minister ruined and in his voluntary exile, 
and with him his whole family. In truth, I should have 
fancied that your hand would have been disarmed by such 
a monstrous price. 

Bertram. — You did not believe that this publicity was 
my fault ! 

Grace {gazing silently at him for some time). — No, no, 
I did not believe it, and told the others so. I was not 
deceived when I counted on your pride. It will also 
prevent you in future from again attempting what is beneath 
your dignity. (She holds out her hand to him.) 

Bertram (hesitating). — Why did you come? You could 
have written me all this, and I should have been spared 
seeing you. 

Grace (approaching a?id laying her hand gently on his 
arm). — Because I w r ished to tell you this, Bertram, and be- 
cause I knew that you would listen to me. It is not your 
nature to hate. Your heart was poisoned. You must be 
again what you once were. I saw that you suffered and I 
pitied you. I saw you working your own ruin, and I hoped 
I could prevent it. 

Bertram. — Yes, yes ; they all said so ! The madman 
who destroys his own life, who raises his hand against him- 
self. Go then ! You have taken away the object of my 
life ; it is well. 

Grace (with deep emotion). — Bertram ! 

Bertram (covering his eyes and groaning). — Yes, yes; 
the world is as empty as my heart. The fires of life are 
burned out ; nothing is left but ashes. All is over ; all ! 



LOVE CONQUERS REVENGE. 177 

Go ! Go ! ( While Grace stands beside him, hesitating 
whether to leave him, the door bursts open and her husband, 
Wed do, plunges in.) 

Weddo (muttering). — Then it is true ! it is true ! (With 
a great effo?-t at self-control he approaches the table opposite 
Bertram.) Why did you not at least bolt the door? Have 
you so little respect for a woman who forgets herself, that 
you will not even protect her from a surprise and humilia- 
tion ? Or do you feel so secure from me that you neglect 
the simplest precaution? The insult is then a double one. 

Bertram {rising, still feeling desolate, and 710 1 under- 
standing Weddo' s speech). — What do you want here? I 
have nothing to do with you. 

Weddo (in angry surprise) . — Indeed, I think you have ! 
You will not refuse to give me satisfaction. 

Bertram. — I give you? I think rather that I am called 
upon to demand such. 

Grace. — What are you thinking of, Weddo? Is it 

possible that a low suspicion (His intense gaze stops 

her.) 

W t eddo. — No more words are needed, the facts speak 
plainly enough. If you fancied me blind and deaf, I was 
not. I have had too much confidence in her whom I made 
my wife, although I knew she did not love me, and yet I 
hoped she would learn to forget and after a time a warmer 
feeling might be awakened. But another pair of eyes 
sharpened by ill-will and distrust, saw for me and they saw 
rightly, as I have here proof. Old Hanuschka told me 
that on the night of the hunt-dinner a man was in your 
rooms. I was too proud to allude, even by a word, to my 
knowledge of it. I did indeed learn my mistake as day 
after day passed without your speaking. I should have 
acted more wisely for my own and my honor's sake, if I 



178 LOVE CONQUERS REVENGE. 

had sought out this man and killed him before he had per- 
suaded his old mother to act as go-between, and sent her 
to you to arrange this interview. 

Bertram (70/10 has been growing more and ?nore excited). 
— Senseless man ! You revile innocence and goodness. I 
did not call her ; she came herself, and what she did was 
no insult to the honor of your house, but its protection. 
Without her, yet more disgrace would have befallen your 
family, and I should be revenged. ( Weddo looks from one 
to the other.) 

Grace (holding out her hand, pleadingly). — Oh, believe 
him, Weddo ! 

Weddo. — And in order to avert disgrace do you plunge 
in it over your head? 

Bertram {furiously).- — Whoever treats his wife thus does 
not deserve her. And why should I leave you here? Her 
heart belonged to me ; it shall continue mine. What 
prevents me from killing you as you spoke of killing me? 
You reproached yourself for not taking your rights before. 
I will not make this mistake. I take only what is mine. 
{With flashing eye he reaches for the pistol under his coat on 
the table. ,) 

Weddo (with a defiant glance and a scornful tone). — It 
would be no novelty if a housebreaker, seducer, and thief 
were to become a murderer also. Only you cannot drive 
me to suicide. Your own hand must complete the work 
this time. 

Bertram (cocking his pistol) . — Then be accursed ! 

Grace. — Ah ! ( With a wild scream throwing herself 
upon her husband.) Have pity ! I love him I {Bertram 
wavers > his hand shakes, he drops the pistol, sinks into a 
chair and his head falls forward infr his hands.) 

Weddo (to Grace).— -If he had hit you ! Merciful God ! 



LOVE CONQUERS REVENGE. 179 

Grace. — O Weddo, I will live and die with you! 
Weddo. — Grace ! ( Weddo and Grace go out.) 
Bertram {remains in the same position, only uttering an 
occasional groan, until his mother quietly entering lays her 
hand on his shoulder. He then raises his head slowly?) — 
Mother ! {The two are clasped in each other's arms and 
their sobs mingled.) 

CURTAIN. 



BECKET SAVES ROSAMUND. 



This scene is adapted from " Becket," by Alfred, Lord Tennyson. 



CHARACTERS. 



Thomas Becket, Archbishop of Ca?iterbury, tall, powerful, 
and commanding. 

Sir Reginald Fitzurse, a K?iight of the Ki?ig's household 
and an enemy of Becket, 

Geoffrey, the young son of the Xing and Rosamund. 

Eleanor, Queen of England. 

Rosamund de Clifford, secret mistress of the King, of great 
beauty and innocence. 

Situation. — Rosamund believes that she is the only truly 
wedded wife of Henry II, who has hid her and her 
beautiful boy in a secret bower in afo7-est of England. 
Henry is away from England, and the Queen with 
Fitzurse has discovered the location of the " Bower." 
Just before the scene here given Rosamund suspects that 
there is a Queen. Her keeper has become drunken and 
careless, and Geoffrey's nurse untrustworthy. Becket 
has been given charge of the "Bower" during Henry* $ 
absence, and towards the end of the scene arrives just 
in time to preve?it a murder. He is a very powerful 
man. 

Eleanor should have a disagreeable look and carry 
about her person some vials of poison and a dagger. 

180 



BECKET SAVES ROSAMUND. Icil 

Enter Rosamund, much disturbed. 
Rosamund. — The boy so late ; pray God, he be not lost. 
I sent this Margery, and she comes not back ; 
I sent another, and she comes not back ; 
I go myself — so many alleys, crossings, 
Paths, avenues — nay, if I lost him, now 
The folds have fallen from the mystery, 
And left all naked, I were lost indeed. 

Enter Geoffrey and Eleanor, a little distance behind him, 
Geoffrey, the pain thou has put me to ! {she sees Eleanor) 

— Ha, you ! 
How came you hither? 

Eleanor. — Your own child brought me hither. 

Geoffrey. — You said you couldn't trust Margery, and I 
watched her and followed her into the woods, and I lost 
her, and went on and on till I found the light and the lady, 
and she says she can make you sleep o' nights. 

Rosamund (to Eleanor). — How dared you? Know you 
not this bower is secret, 
Of and belonging to the King of England, 
More sacred than his forests for the chase ? 
Nay, nay, Heaven help you ; get you hence in haste 
Lest worse befall you. 

Eleanor. — Child, I am mine own self 

Of and belonging to the King. The King 
Hath divers ofs and ons, ofs and belongings, 

Almost as many as your true Mussulman 

Belongings, paramours, whom it pleases him 
To call his wives ; but so it chances, child, 
That I am his main paramour, his sultana, 
But since the fondest pair of doves will jar, 
Ev'n in a cage of gold, we had words of late, 



152 BECKET SAVES ROSA* 

And thereupon he called my children bas 
Do you believe that you are married to him? 

Rosamund. — I should believe it. 

Eleanor. — You must not believe it, 

Because I have a wholesome medicine here 
Puts that belief asleep. Your answer, beauty ! 
Do you believe that you are married to him? 

Rosamund. — Geoffrey, my boy, I saw the ball you lost in 
the fork of the great willow over the brook. Go. See that 
you do not fall in. Go. 

Geoffrey. — And leave you alone with the good fairy. 
She calls you beauty, but I don't like her looks. 

Rosamund. — Go. {He goes out.) 

Eleanor. — He is easily found again. Do you believe it? 
I pray you then to take my sleeping-draught ; 
But if you should not care to take it — see ! {She draws a 

dagger) 
What ! have I scared the red rose from your face 
Into your heart. But this will find it there, 
And dig it from the root for ever. 

Rosamund (she has shrunk back at sight of the dagger) . — 
Help! Help! 

Eleanor. — They say that walls have ears ; but these, it 
seems, 
Have none ! and I have none — to pity thee. 

Rosamund. — I do beseech you — my child is so young. 
I am not so happy I could not die myself, 
But the child is so young. You have children — his ; 

And mine is the King's child ; so, if you love him 

Nay, if you love him, there is a great wrong done 
Somehow ; but if you do not — there are those 
Who say you do not love him — let me go 
With my young boy, and God will be our guide, 



BECfcET SAVES feOSAMUND. 1 83 

And I will beg my bread along the world. 
I never meant you harm in any way. 
See, I can say no more. 

Eleanor. — Will you not say you are not married to him ? 

Rosamund. — Ay, madam, I can say it, if you will. 

Eleanor. — Then is thy pretty boy a bastard ? 

Rosamund.— No. 

Eleanor. — And thou thyself a proven wanton? 

Rosamund. — No. 

I am none such. I never loved but one. 
I have heard of such that range from love to love, 
Like the wild beast — if you can call it love. 
I have heard of such — yea, even among those 
Who sit on thrones — I never saw any such, 
Never knew any such, and howsoever 
You do misname me, match'd with any such, 
I am snow to mud. 

Eleanor. — The more the pity then 
That thy true home — the heavens— cry out for thee 
Who art too pure for earth. 

Enter Fitzurse. 

Fitzurse. — Give her to me. 

Eleanor. — The Judas-lover of our passion-play 
Hath tracked us hither. 

Fitzurse. — Well, why not ? I follow'd 
You and the child ; he babbled all the way. 
Give her to me to make my honeymoon. 

Eleanor. — No ! 

I follow out my hate and thy revenge. 

Fitzurse. — You bade me take revenge another way 

To bring her to the dust -Come with me, love, 

And I will love thee Madam, let her live. 

I have a far-off burrow where the King 



184 BECKET SAVES ROSAMUND. 

Would miss her and for ever. 

Rosamund. — Give me the poison j set me free of him ! 
{Eleanor offers the vial.) 
No, no ! I will not have it. 

Eleanor. — Then this other, 

The wiser choice, because my sleeping-draught 
May bloat thy beauty out of shape, and make 
Thy body loathsome, even to thy child ; 
While this but leaves thee with a broken heart, 
A doll-face blanched and bloodless, over which 
If pretty Godfrey do not break his own, 
It must be broken for him. 

Rosamund. — Oh, I see now 

Your purpose is to fright me — a troubadour 
You play with words. You had never used so many, 

Not if you meant it, I am sure. The child 

No mercy ! No ! (She kneels.) 

Eleanor. — Play ! that bosom never 

Heaved under the King's hand with such true passion 
As at this loveless knife that stirs the riot, 
Which it will quench in blood ! — Fitzurse, 
The running down the chase is kindlier sport 
Ev'n than the death. ( To Rosamund ) Take thy one chance ; 
Catch at the last straw. Kneel to thy lord Fitzurse ; 
Crouch even because thou hatest him ; fawn upon him 
For thy life and thy son's. 

Rosamund (rising) . — I am a Clifford, 
My son a Clifford and Plantagenet. 
I am to die then, tho' there stands beside thee 
One who might grapple with thy dagger, if he 
Had aught of man, or thou of woman ; or I 
Would bow to such a baseness as would make me 
Most worthy of it ; both of us will die, 



EECKET SAVES ROSAMUND. 1 85 

Strike ! 

I challenge thee to meet me before God. 

Answer me there. 

Eleanor (she raises the dagger). — This in thy bosom, fool 
And after in thy 

Enter Becket from behind. 

Becket (he seizes her raised arm). — Murderess ! (The 
dagger falls ; they stare at one another, but he does not re- 
lease her.) 

Eleanor (after a pause) . — My, lord, we know you proud 
of your fine hand, 
But having now admired it long enough, 

We find that it is mightier than it seems 

At least mine own is frailer ; you are laming it. 

Becket. — And lamed and maimed to dislocation, better 
Than raised to take a life which Henry bade me 
Guard from the stroke that dooms thee after death 
To wail in deathless flame. 

Eleanor. — My lord Fitzurse 

Becket (he drops her arm and discovers him) . — He too ! 
what dost thou here? 
Go, lest I blast thee with anathema 
And make a world's horror. 

Fitzurse. — My lord, I shall 

Remember this. 

Becket. — I do remember thee. (Fitzurse goes otit.) 

(To Eleanor) Take up your dagger; put it in the sheath. 

Eleanor. — Might not your courtesy stoop to hand it 
me ? (She wilts under his piercing glance.) 
But crowns must bow when mitres sit so high. 
Well — well — too costly to be left or lost. (She picks up the 
dagger with a look of great scorn toward Becket.) 



1 86 BECKET SAVES ROSAMUND. 

Becket {after watching in silence the picking up of the dag- 
ger, turns to Rosamund). — Daughter, the world hath 
trick'd thee. Leave it, daughter. {He speaks gen t/y.) 

Come thou with me to Godstow nunnery, 

And live what may be left thee of a life 

Saved as by miracle, alone with Him 

Who gave it. (He leads Rosamund out. Eleanor waits 
till they have disappeared, looks all round disdain- 
fully and goes out) 



THE PRINCESS AND THE COUNTESS. 



Adapted from " Prince Otto," by Robert Louis Stevenson. 



CHARACTERS. 

Princess Seraphina, Queen of Grunewald. 

Countess Anna von Rosen, an intriguing lady of the Court, 
who has a true regard for the King, Prince Otto. 

Situation. — Baron Heinrich Gondremark, in the absence 
of the Prince, has obtained control of affairs of the 
kingdom through the Princess, and stirs up a rebellion. 
On the Prince's return, he perstiades the Princess to 
write an order to imprison the Prince. Countess 
Anna has shown this order to the Prince, who has 
willingly submitted, and then she has carried it to the 
authorities for execution. She returns to the Princess 
to stir up a proper love for the Prince and to get an 
order for his release. 

The Princess sits alone at her table, troubled by conscience, 
out of health, out of heart. Enter Countess. 

Princess. — You come, madam, from the Baron? Be 
seated. What have you to say? 

Countess. — To say ? Oh, much to say ! Well ! to be 
categorical — that is the word? — I took the Prince your 

187 



1 88 THE PRINCESS AND THE COUNTESS. 

order. He could not credit his senses. "Ah," he cried, 
"dear Madame von Rosen, it is not possible— it cannot 
be — I must hear it from your lips. My wife is a poor girl 
misled, she is only silly, she is not cruel." " Mon Prince" 
said I, "a girl — and therefore cruel ; youth kills flies." — 
He had such pain to understand it ! 

Princess (a little angry). — Madame von Rosen, who 
sent you here, and for what purpose? Tell your errand. 

Countess. — O madam, I believe you understand me very 
well. I have not your philosophy. I wear my heart upon 
my sleeve, excuse the indecency ! It is a very little one 
{she laughs), and I so often change the sleeve. 

Princess (rising). — Am I to understand the Prince has 
been arrested? 

Countess (anile nonchalant) . — While you sat there 
dining ! 

Princess. — You have discharged your errand ; I will not 
detain you. 

Countess. — O no, madam, with your permission, I have 
not yet done. I have borne much this evening in your 
service. (She unfolds her fan, to conceal her inward agita- 
tion ; but waves it very languidly.) 

Princess. — You are no servant, Madame von Rosen, of 
mine. 

Countess. — No, madam, indeed ; but we both serve the 
same person, as you know — or if you do not, -then I have 
the pleasure of informing you. Your conduct is so light — 
so light (she wai'cs the fan like a butterfly), that perhaps you 
do not truly understand. (She rolls her fan together and puts 
it in her lap.) Indeed, I should be sorry to see any young 
woman in your situation. You began with every advantage 
— birth, a suitable marriage — quite pretty, too — and see 
what you have come to ! My poor girl, to think of it ! 



THE PRINCESS AND THE COUNTESS. 1 89 

But there is nothing that does so much harm as giddiness 
of mind. {She fans herself again.) 

Princess. — I will no longer permit you to forget yourself. 
I think you are mad. 

Countess. — Not mad. Sane enough to know you dare 
not break with me to-night, and to profit by the knowledge. 
I left my poor pretty Prince Charming crying his eyes out 
for a wooden doll. O, you immature fool ! {She rises to 
her feet and the closed fan trembles as she points it at the 
Princess?) O wooden doll ! have you a heart, or blood, or 
any nature? This is a man, child — a man who loves you. 
Oh, it will not happen twice ! And you, you pitiful school- 
girl, tread this jewel underfoot ! you, stupid with your 
vanity ! — I will tell you one of the things that were to stay 
unspoken. Von Rosen is a better woman than you, my 
Princess, though you will never have the pain of under- 
standing it ; and when I took the Prince your order, and 
looked upon his face, my soul was melted — Oh, I am frank — 
here, within my arms, I offered him repose. {She ad- 
vances, as she speaks, with outstretched arms, but the Prin- 
cess shrinks away.) Do not be alarmed ; I am not offer- 
ing that hermitage to you. In all the world there is but 
one who wants to, and him you have dismissed ! " If it 
will give her pleasure I should wear the martyr's crown," he 
cried, "I will embrace the thorns." I tell you — I am quite 
frank — I put the order in his power and begged him to 
resist. You, who have betrayed your husband, may betray 
me to Gondremark ; my Prince would betray no one. 
Understand it plainly, 'tis of his pure forbearance you sit 
there ; he had the power — I gave it to him — to change the 
parts ; and he refused, and went to prison in your place. 

Princess {with some distress). — Your violence shocks 
me and pains me, but I cannot be angry with what at least 



190 THE PRINCESS AND THE COUNTESS. 

does honor to the mistaken kindness of your heart j it was 
right for me to know this. I will condescend to tell you. 
It was our great misfortune, it was perhaps somewhat of my 
fault, that we were so unsuited to each other ; but I have 
a regard, a sincere regard, for all his qualities. As a private 
person I should think as you do. It is difficult, I know, to 
make allowances for state considerations. I have only with 
deep reluctance obeyed the call of a superior duty * and so 
soon as I dare do it for the safety of the state, I promise 
you the Prince shall be released. Many in my situation 
would have resented your freedoms. I am not — {she looks 
rather piteously upon the Countess') — I am not altogether 
so inhuman as you think. 

Countess. — And you can put these troubles of the state 
to weigh with a man's loVe? 

Princess {with dignity). — Madame von Rosen, these 
troubles are affairs of life and death to many ; to the 
Prince, and perhaps even to yourself, among the number. 
I have learned madam, although still so young, in a hard 
school, that my own feelings must everywhere come last. 

Countess. — O callow innocence ! Is it possible you do 
not know, or do not suspect, the intrigue in which you 
move ? I find it in my heart to pity you ! We are both 
women, after all — poor girl, poor girl ! — and who is born a 
Woman is born a fool. And though I hate all women — 
come, for the common folly, I forgive you. Your Highness 
{she drops a deep courtesy and resumes her fan), 1 am 
going to insult you, to betray one who is called my lover, 
and if it pleases you to use the power I now put unreservedly 
into your hands, to ruin my dear self. Oh, what a French 
comedy ! You betray, I betray, they betray. It is now 
my cue. The letter, yes, behold the letter, madam, its 
seal unbroken as I found it by my bed this morning ; for I 



THE PRINCESS AND THE COUNTESS. 191 

wag out of humor and I get many, too many, of these favors. 
For your own sake, for the sake of my Prince Charming, 
for the sake of this great municipality, that sits so heavy on 
your conscience, open it and read ! (She holds it to her.) 

Princess.— Am I to understand that this letter in any 
way regards me ? 

Countess.— You see I have not opened it; but 'tis mine, 
and I beg you to experiment. 

Princess {very seriously) .—I cannot look at it till you 
have. There may be matter there not meant for me to 
see ; it is a private letter. {The Countess tears it open, 
glances it through, and tosses it on the table. The Princess 
takes it up, recognizes the handwriting of Gondremark, and 
reads with horror.) "Dearest Anna, come at once. Ra- 
tafia has done the deed, her husband to be packed to 
prison. This puts the minx entirely in my power : the die 
is cast ; she will now go steady in harness, or I will know 
the reason why. Come. Heinrich." {The Princess sinks 
down, almost fainting.) 

Countess. — Command yourself, madam. It is in vain 
for you to fight with Gondremark ; he has more strings 
than mere court favor, and could bring you down to-mor- 
row with a word. I would not have betrayed him other- 
wise ; but Heinrich is a man, and plays with all of you like 
marionettes. And now at least you see for what you sacri- 
ficed my Prince. — Madam, will you take some wine? I 
have been cruel. 

Princess '{with a faint smile), — Not cruel, madam — 
salutary. No, I thank you, I require no attentions. The 
first surprise affected me; will you give me time a little? 
1 must think. (She holds her head in her hands and thinks 
tempestuously.) This information reaches me when I have 
need of it. I would not do as you have done, and yet I 



192 THE PRINCESS AND THE COUNTESS. 

thank you. I have been much deceived in Baron Gondre- 
mark. 

Countess. — Oh, madam, leave Gond remark, and think 
upon the Prince ! 

Princess. — You speak once more as a private person, nor 
do I blame you. But my own thoughts are most distracted. 
However, as I believe you are truly a friend to my — to the 
— as I believe you are a friend to Otto, I shall put the 
order for his release into your hands this moment. Give 
me the ink. There ! {She writes hastily, steadying her 
trembling hand on the table.) Remember, madam {she 
hands the order), this must not be used nor spoken of at 
present ; till I have seen the Baron, any hurried step — I 
lose myself in thinking. The suddenness has shaken me. 

Countess. — I promise you I will not use it till you give 
me leave, although I wish the Prince could be informed of 
it, to comfort his poor heart. And, oh, I had forgotten, he 
has left a letter. Suffer me, madam ; I will bring it to you. 
This is the door, I think? {She goes to the side opposite 
her entrance and tries in vain to open the door.) 

Princess. — The bolt is pushed. 

Countess. — Oh, Oh ! 

Princess {after a silence) . — I will get it for myself, and 
in the meanwhile I beg you to leave me. I thank you, I 
am sure, but I shall be obliged if you will withdraw. {The 
Countess courtesies and withdraws?) 

CURTAIN. 



QUEEN CATHERINE. 



CHARACTERS. 

Catherine of Arragon, wife of Henry VIII. 

Thomas Wolsey, Cardinal, Pri?ne Minister of Henry VIII. 
and Duke of York. 

Campeius, Cardinal a7id Legate from the Pope. 

A Gentleman in attendance upon the Queen. 

Some Women at work with the Queen. 

Situation. — Henry VIII. is about to put aside Queen 
Catherine in order to marry Anne Boleyn. He sends 
Cardinal Wolsey and the Pope's Legate, Cardinal 
Campeius, to obtain the Queen's acquiescence. The in- 
terview is stor?7iy but successful. The Queen is i?i her 
own apartments with her women about her at work on 
embroidery or so?nethi?ig of like nature. 

Enter a Gentleman. 
Catherine. — How now ! 

Gentleman. — An't please your Grace, the two great 
Cardinals 
Wait in the presence.* 

Catherine. — Would they speak with me? 

Gentleman. — They willed me say so, madam. 

* Presence for presence-chamber, or reception room. 
13 193 



194 QUEEN CATHERINE. 

Catherine. — Pray their Graces 

To come near. {Exit Gentleman?) What can be their 

business 
With me, a poor weak woman, falPn from favor? 
I do not like their coming, now I think on't. 
They should be good men ; their affairs are righteous ; 
But all hoods make not monks. 

Enter Wolsey and Campeius. 

Wolsey. — Peace to your Highness ! 

Catherine. — Your Graces find me here part of a house- 
wife : 
I would be all, against the worse may happen. 
What are your pleasures with me, reverend lords? 

Wolsey.— May' t please you, noble madam, to withdraw 
Into your private chamber, we shall give you 
The full cause of our coining. 

Catherine.— Speak it here ; 

There's nothing I have done yet, o' my conscience, 
Deserves a corner : would all other women 
Could speak this with as free a soul as I do ! 
My lords, I care not — so much I am happy 
Above a number — if my actions 
Were tried by every tongue, every eye saw 'em, 
Envy and base opinion set against 'em, 
I know my life so even. If your business 
Do seek me out and that way I am wife in, 
Out with it boldly ; truth loves open dealing. 

Wolsey. — Tanta est erga te ?nentis integritas, regina se- 
renissima 

Catherine. — Oh, good my lord, no Latin ; 
I am not such a truant since my coming, 
As not to know the language I have lived in ; 



QUEEN CATHERINE. 1 95 

A strange tongue makes my cause more strange-suspicious. 
Pray, speak in English : here are some will thank you, 
If you speak truth, for their poor mistress' sake ; 
Believe me, she has had much wrong : Lord Cardinal, 
The willing' st sin I ever yet committed 
May be absolved in English. 

Wolsey. — Noble lady, 

I'm sorry my integrity should breed 
So deep suspicion, where all faith was meant, 
And service to his Majesty and you. 
We come not by the way of accusation, 
To taint that honor every good tongue blesses, 
Nor to betray you any way to sorrow ; 
You have too much, good lady : but to know 
How you stand minded in the weighty difference 
Between the king and you ; and to deliver, 
Like free and honest men, our just opinions, 
And comforts to your cause. 

Campeius. — Most honor'd madam, 

My Lord of York, — out of his noble nature, 
Zeal and obedience he still bore your Grace, — 
(Forgetting, like a good man, your late censure, 
Both of his truth and him, which was too far,) — 
Offers, as I do, in a sign of peace, {crosses himself.) 
His service and his counsel. 

Catherine {aside). — To betray me. — 
My lords, I thank you both for your good wills : 
Ye speak like honest men ; pray God, ye prove so ! 
But how to make ye suddenly an answer, 
In such a point of weight, so near mine honor, — 
More near my life, I fear, — with my weak wit, 
And to such men of gravity and learning, 
In truth, I know not. I was set at work 



196 QUEEN CATHERINE. 

Among my maids ; full little, God knows, looking 
Either for such men or such business. 
Let me have time and counsel for my cause : 
Alas, I am a woman, friendless, hopeless. 

Wolsey. — Madam, you wrong the king's love with these 
fears ; 
Your hopes and friends are infinite. 

Catherine. — In England 

But little for my profit : can you think, lords, 
That any Englishman dare give me counsel? 
Or be a known friend, 'gainst his Highness' pleasure, 
Though he be grown so desperate to be honest, — 
And live a subject? Nay, forsooth, my friends, 
They that must weigh * out my afflictions, 
They that my trust must grow to, live not here — 
They are, as all my other comforts, far hence, 
In mine own country, lords. 

Campeius. — I would your Grace 

Would leave your griefs, and take my counsel. 

Catherine. — How, sir? 

Campeius. — Put your main cause into the king's protec- 
tion ; 
He's loving and most gracious ; 'twill be much 
Both for your honor better and your cause; 
For if the trial of the law o'er take ye, 
You'll part away disgraced. 

Wolsey. — He tells you rightly. 

Catherine. — Ye tell me what ye wish for both, my ruin : 
Is this your Christian counsel? Out upon ye ! 
Heaven is above all yet ; there sits a judge 
That no king can corrupt. 

* Weigh out, that is, consider my afflictions. 



QUEEN CATHERINE. 1 97 

Campeius. — Your rage mistakes us. 

Catherine. — The more shame for ye: holy men I 
thought ye, 
Upon my soul, two reverend cardinal virtues ; 
But cardinal sins and hollow hearts, I fear ye : 
Mend 'em, for shame, my lords. Is this your comfort? 
The cordial that ye bring a wretched lady, 
A woman lost among ye, laugh'd at, scorn'd? 
I will not wish ye half my miseries ; 
I have more charity : but say, I warn'd ye ; 
Take heed, for Heaven's sake, take heed, lest at once 
The burden of my sorrows fall upon ye. 

Wolsey. — Madam, this is a mere distraction; 
You turn the good we offer into envy.* 

Catherine. — Ye turn me into nothing : woe upon ye, 
And all such false professors ! 
Have I lived thus long (let me speak myself, 
Since virtue finds no friends) a wife, a true one? 
A woman — I dare say, without vain glory — 
Never yet branded with suspicion? 
Bring me a constant woman to her husband, 
One that ne'er dream'd a joy beyond his pleasure; 
And to that woman, when she has done most, 
Yet will I add an honor, — a great patience. 

Wolsey. — Madam, you wander from the good we aim at. 

Catherine. — My lord, I dare not make myself so guilty, 
To give up willingly that noble title 
Your master wed me to : nothing but death 
Shall e'er divorce my dignities. 

Wolsey {tries to interrupt her) . — Pray, hear me 

Catherine. — Would I had never trod this English earth, 

* Envy, for malice. 



I 



igS QUEEN CATHERINE. 

Or felt the flatteries that grow upon it ! 

Ve've angels' faces, but Heaven knows your hearts. 

What will become of me now, wretched lady ! 

I am the most unhappy woman living. — (She /urns to her 

women and kisses them fondly.') 
Alas, poor wenches, where are now your fortunes? 
Shipwreck'd upon a kingdom, where no pity, 
No friends, no hope ; no kindred weep for me ; 
Almost no grave allow'd me : like the lily, 
That once was mistress of the field and flourish'd, 
I'll hang my head and perish. 

Wolsey. — If your Grace 

Could but be brought to know our ends are honest, 
You'd feel more comfort. Why should we, good lady, 
Upon what cause, wrong you ? Alas, our places, 
The way of our profession is against it : 
We are to cure such sorrows, not to sow 'em. - 
For goodness' sake, consider what you do ; 
How you may hurt yourself, ay, utterly 
Grow from the king's acquaintance, by this carriage. 
The hearts of princes kiss obedience, 
So much they love it ; but to stubborn spirits 
They swell, and grow as terrible as storms. 
I know you have a gentle, noble temper, 
A soul as even as a calm : pray, think us 
Those we profess, peace-makers, friends, and servants. 

Campeius. — Madam, you'll find it so. You wrong your 
virtues 
With these weak women's fears : a noble spirit 
As yours was put into you, ever casts 
Such doubts, as false coin, from it. The king loves you ; 
Beware you lose it not : for us, if please you, 
To trust us in your business, we are ready 



QUEEN CATHERINE. 1 99 

To use our utmost studies in your service. 

Catherine. — Do what ye will, my lords : and, pray, for- 
give me, 
If I have used myself unmannerly ; 
You know I am a woman, lacking wit 
To make a seemly answer to such persons. 
Pray, do my service to his Majesty : 
He has my heart yet ; and shall have my prayers 
While I shall have my life. Come, reverend fathers, 
Bestow your counsels on me : she now begs, 
That little thought, when she set footing here, 
She should have bought her dignities so dear. ( The Queen 
goes out, followed by the two Cardinals, and then 
the women.) 



DEACON BRODIE. 



Adapted from a play by W. E. Henley and R. L. Stevenson, entitled " Deacon 
Brodie, or the Double Life." 



CHARACTERS. 

William Brodie, called Deacon, that is Master, of the Car- 
penters. 

William Lawson, a Justice of the Law, Brodie' s Uncle. 

Walter Leslie, a young man engaged to marry Brodie 1 s 
sister. 

Mary Brodie, sister of the Deacon. 

Jean Watt, the secret wife of the Deacon. 

Hunt, a special police officer. 

Situation. — Deacon Brodie by day appears to be an in- 
dustrious and skilled carpenter, but at night is the ex- 
pert of a gang of housebreakers. On this particular 
night he has 1-etired early, locked his door, changed his 
clothes, jumped out of His window and joined the gang. 
His old father has died in his absence, and his siste? 
and the Doctor have forced his door, only to fi?id the 
room empty and window open. One of the gang has 
proved treacherous and Brodie has stabbed him, and 
then hurried home expecting to prove an alibi through 
his sister and his closed room. 

The night before the murder, Brodie has been caught 
by Lawson and Leslie in a burglary and has promised to 
fly from the countiy and begin a ?iew life across the 
200 



DEACON BRODIE. 201 

ocean. He has this in mind in his last words, but 
the meaning shifts to the " land of the hereafter." 

There should be a table on the platfomn, a la?nft or 
candle at hand, and by supposition there is the open 
window through which Brodie enters, and the broken 
door through which all the othe7's come in. 

The platform or stage should be dark as the curtain 
is drawn ; only light enough to see the Deacon crawl in 
through the window. After a few sentences he lights a 
a candle himself. 

Enter Brodie through the window. 
Brodie {after a pause and a sigh). — Saved! And the 
alibi ! Man, but you've been near it this time — near the 
rope, near the rope. Ah, boy, it was your neck; your 
neck you fought for. They were closing hell-doors upon 
me, swift as the wind, when I slipped through and shot for 
heaven ! Saved ! The dog that sold me, I settled him ; 
and the other dogs are staunch. Man, but your alibi will 
stand ! Is the window fast ? {He returns to it, closes and 
carefully locks it.) The neighbors must not see the Deacon, 
the poor, sick Deacon, up and stirring at this time o' night. 

— Ay, the good old room in the good, cosy old house 

and the rat a dead rat, and all saved. {He lights the can- 
dles.) — Your hand shakes, sir? Fie ! And you saved, and 
you snug and sick in your bed, and it but a dead rat after 
all? {He takes off his belt and lays it on the table.) Ay, it 
was a near touch. Will it come to the dock?* If it does ! 
You've a tongue, and you've a head, and you've an alibi ; 
and your alibi will stand. {He takes off his coat, takes out 
the dagger, and makes a gesture of striking.) Home ! He 
fell without a sob. " He breaketh them against the bosses 
*Will it come to trial in court. 



202 DEACON BRODIE. 

of his buckler !" {He lays the dagger on the table.) Your 

alibi ah Deacon, that's your life ! your alibi, your 

alibi. {He takes tip a candle and turns towards the door.) 

O ! Open, open, open ! Judgment of God, the door is 

open ! 

Enter Mary Brodie. 

Brodie. — Did you open the door? 

Mary. — I did. 

Brodie. — You you opened the door? 

Mary. — I did open it. 

Brodie. — Were you alone ? 

Mary. — I was not. The servant was with me ; and the 
doctor. 

Brodie. — O the servant and the doctor. Very 

true. Then it's all over the town by now. The servant and 
the doctor. The doctor? What doctor? Why the doctor? 

Mary. — My father is dead. O Will, where have you 
been? 

Brodie. — Your father is dead. O yes ! He's dead, is 

he? Dead. Quite right. Quite right How did you 

open the door? It's strange, I bolted it. 

Mary. — We could not help it, Will, now could we? The 
doctor forced it. He had to, had he not ? 

Brodie. — The doctor forced it? The doctor? Was he 
here? He forced it? He? 

Mary. — We did it for the best ; it was I who did it 

I, your own sister. And O Will, my Willie, where have you 
been? You have not been in any harm, any danger? 

Brodie. — Danger? O my young lady, you have taken 
care of that. It's not danger now, it's death. Death? Ah ! 
Death! Death! Death! {He clutches the table ; and then 
recovers as f?'om a dream.) Death? Did you say my 
father was dead ? My father? O my God, my poor old 



DEACON BRODEE. 203 

father ! Is he dead, Mary? Have Host him? is he gone? 
O, Mary dear, and to think of where his son was ! 

Mary. — Dearest, he is in heaven. 

Brodie. — Did he suffer? 

Mary. — He died like a child. Your name it was his 

last. 

Brodie. — My name ? Mine ? O Mary, if he had known ! 

He knows now. He knows ; he sees us now sees me ! 

Ay, and sees you, left how lonely ! 

Mary. — Not so, dear • not while you live. Wherever you 
are, I shall not be alone, so you live. 

Brodie. — While I live? I? The old house is ruined, 
and the old master dead, and I ! O Mary, try and be- 
lieve I did not mean that it should come to this ; try and 
believe that I was only weak at first. At first ? And now ! 
The good old man dead, the kind sister ruined, the innocent 

boy fallen, fallen ! You will be quite alone ; all your 

old friends, all the old faces, gone into darkness. The 

night (in despair) it waits for me. You will be quite 

alone. 

Mary (with a shudder) . — The night ! 

Brodie. — Mary, you must hear. How am I to tell her, 
and the old man just dead 1 Mary, I was the boy you knew ; 

I loved pleasure, I was weak : I have fallen low lower 

than you think. A beginning is so small a thing ! I never 
dreamed it would come to this this hideous last night. 

Mary. — Willie, you must tell me, dear. I must have the 
truth the kind truth at once in pity. 

Brodie. — Crime. I have fallen. Crime. 

Mary. — Crime ? (She draws away from him in horror.) 

Brodie. — Don't shrink from me. Miserable dog that I 

am, selfish hound that has dragged you to this misery 

you and all that loved him think only of my torments, 



204 DEACON BRODIE. 

think only of my penitence, don't shrink from me. 

Mary. — I do not care to hear, I do not wish, I do not 
mind; you are my brother. What do I care? How can I 
help you? 

Brodie. — Help ? help me ? You would not speak of it, 
nor wish it, if you knew. My kind good sister, my little 
playmate, my sweet friend ! Was I ever unkind to you till 
yesterday? Not openly unkind? you'll say that when I'm 
gone. 

Mary. — If you have done wrong, what do I care? If 
you have failed, does it change my twenty years of love and 
worship ? Never ! 

Brodie. — Yet I must make her understand ! 

Mary. — I am your true sister, dear. I cannot fail, I 
will never leave you, I will never blame you. Come ! (She 
approaches to embrace htm.) 

Brodie (recoiling'). — No, don't touch me, not a finger, 
not that, anything but that ! 

Mary.— Willie, Willie ! 

Brodie (he takes the bloody dagger from the table). — See, 
do you understand that? 

Mary (horrified). — Ah ! What, what is it? 

Brodie. — Blood. I have killed a man. 

Mary. — You? 

Brodie. — I am a murderer; I was a thief before. Your 
brother the old man's only son ! 

Mary (turning away from him and calling for her lover). — 
Walter, Walter, come to me ! 

Brodie. — Now you see that I must die ; now you see 
that I stand upon the grave's edge, all my lost life behind 
me, like a horror to think upon, like a frenzy, like a dream 
that is past. And you, you are alone. Father, brother, 
they are gone from you ; one to heaven, one ! 



DEACON BRODIE. 205 

Mary (she has turned towai-ds him again) . — Hush, dear, 
hush ! Kneel, pray ; it is not too late to repent. Think of 
your father, dear ; repent. (She weeps and says with an 
appealing gesture.) O Willie, darling boy, repent and join 
us. 

Enter Lawson, Leslie and Jean. 

Lawson. — She kens a', thank the guid Lord ! 

Brodie {to Mary). — I know you forgive me now, I ask 
no more. (Indicating Leslie.) That is a good man. (To 
Leslie) Will you take her from my hands ? (Leslie takes her.) 
Jean, are ye here to see the end? 

Jean. — Eh man, can ye no fly? Could ye no say that it 
was me? 

Brodie. — No, Jean, this is where it ends. Uncle, this is 
where it ends. And to think that not an hour ago I still 
had hopes ! Hopes ! Ay, not an hour ago I thought of a 
new life. You were not forgotten, Jean. Leslie, you must 
try to forgive me you, too. 

Leslie. — You are her brother. 

Brodie (to Lawson). — And you? 

Lawson.— My name-child and my sister's bairn ! 

Brodie. — You won't forget Jean, will you? nor the child? 

Lawson. — That I will not. 

Mary. — O Willie, nor I. 

Enter Hunt. 

Hunt. — The game's up, Deacon. I'll trouble you to 
come along with me. 

Brodie (behind the table, while Hunt is near the door) . — 
One moment, officer : I have a word to say before witnesses 
ere I go. In all this there is but one man guilty ; and that 
man is I. None else has sinned ; none else must suffer. 
This poor woman (pointing to Jean) I have used ; she never 



206 DEACON BRODIE. 

understood. Mr. Justice, that is my dying confession. {He 
snatches his dagger from the table, rushes at Hunt who par- 
ries and runs him through. He reels across the stage and 
falls.) The new life the new life ! {He dies.) 

THE END. 

Note. — Another ending would be for Brodie to take a small bot- 
tle of poison from his pocket or from the table and as he drank it, 
have Hunt, with a kind of curse that his victim was thus escaping 
him, stride and lunge toward him. He would sink down as before. 

This saves the extremely difficult fencing to kill on the stage. 



PIZARRO AND ROLLA. 

Adapted from " Pizarro," a play by Richard Brinsley Sheridan. 



CHARACTERS. 

Pizarro, a cruel, Spanish conqueror. 

Holla, a valiant, gentle, daring Peruvian chief. 

Elvira, wife of Pizarro, ambitious, bold and haughty. 

Situation. — Pizarro and the Spanish froops have fought 
ivith the Peruvians under Rolla and Alonzo (a 
Spaniard who has gone over to the Peruvians because 
he does not believe in the slaughter of this innocent 
people), a?id have made Alonzo prisoner . Rolla has 
with the aid of Elvira has rescued Alonzo. Elvira, 
whose love for Pizarro has turned to hatred on account 
of his cruelty, introduces Rolla into the tent of the 
sleeping Pizarro. She gives him a dagger to slay his 
enemy with. Just here the following scene comes. 

Pizarro is on a couch in disturbed sleep. 

Pizarro (in his sleep). — No mercy, traitor! — Now at 
his heart ! — Stand off there, you !— Let me see him bleed ! 
Ha ! ha ! ha ! — Let me hear that groan again. 

Enter Rolla and Elvira. 
Elvira. — There ! Now lose not a minute. 
Rolla. — You must leave me now. This scene of blood 
fits not a woman's presence. 

207 



208 PIZARRO AND ROLLA. 

Elvira. — But a moment's pause may — 

Rolla. — Go, retire to your own tent, and return not 

here 1 will come to you. Be thou not known in this 

business, I implore you ! 

Elvira.— I will withdraw the guard that waits. (She 
goes out.) 

Rolla. — Now have I in my power the accursed des- 
troyer of my country's peace : yet tranquilly he rests. 
God ! can this man sleep? 

Pizarro (in his sleep). — Away! away! hideous fiends! 
Tear not my bosom thus ! 

Rolla. — No I was in error — the balm of sweet repose 
he never more can know. Look here, ambition's fools ! 
ye by whose inhuman pride the bleeding sacrifice of nations 
is held as nothing, behold the rest of the guilty! He is at 
my mercy — and one blow ! — No ! my heart and hand re- 
fuse the act : Rolla cannot be an assassin ! Yet Elvira 
must be saved ! {He app7-oaches the couch.) Pizarro ! 
awake ! 

Pizarro {he starts up). — Who? — Guard ! 

Rolla. — Speak not — another word is thy death. Call 
not for aid ! this arm will be swifter than thy guard. 

Pizarro. — Who art thou? and what is thy will? 

Rolla. — I am thine enemy. Peruvian Rolla ! Thy 
death is not my will, or I could have slain thee sleeping. 

Pizarro. — Speak, what else? 

Rolla. — Now thou art at my mercy, answer me ! Did 
a Peruvian ever yet wrong or injure thee, or any of 
thy nation ? Didst thou, or any of thy nation, ever yet 
show mercy to a Peruvian in thy power? Now shalt thou 
feel, and if thou hast a heart thou'lt feel it keenly, a Peru- 
vian's vengeance ! {He drops the dagger at his feet?) 
There ! 



PIZARRO AND ROLLA. 209 

Pizarro. — Is it possible ? (He walks aside dumfounded.) 
Rolla. — Can Pizarro be surprised at this? I thought 

forgiveness of injuries had been the Christian's precept. 

Thou seest, at least, it is the Peruvian's practice. 

Pizarro. — Rolla, thou hast indeed surprised — subdued 

me. {He walks again apart irresolutely.*) 

Re-enter Elvira, not seeing Pizarro. 

Elvira. — Is it done ? Is he dead ? (She sees Pizarro.) 
How, still living ! Then I am lost ! And for you, wretched 
Peruvians ! mercy is no more ! O Rolla : treacherous or 
cowardly ? 

Pizarro (amazed at presence of Elvira). — How ! can it 
be that 

Rolla. — Away! — (To Pizarro.) Elvira speaks she 
knows not what — (To Elvira.) — Leave me, I conjure you, 
with Pizarro. 

Elvira. — How ! Rolla dost thou think I shall retract? 
or that I meanly will deny that in thy hand I placed a 
poignard to be plunged into that tyrant's heart? No : my 
sole regret is, that I trusted to thy weakness, and did not 
strike the blow myself. Too soon thou'lt learn that mercy 
to that man is direct cruelty to all thy race. 

Pizarro. — Guard ! quick ! a guard, to seize this frantic 
woman. 

Elvira. — Yes, a guard ! I call them too ! And soon I 
know they'll lead me to my death. But think not, Pizarro, 
the fury of thy flashing eyes shall awe me for a moment. 
Though defeated and destroyed, as now I am, I shall perish 
glorying in the attempt — to have rescued millions of in- 
nocents from the blood-thirsty tyranny of one — by ridding 
the insulted world of thee. 

Rolla. — Had the act been noble as the motive, Rolla 
would not have shrunk from its performance. 



\ 

2IO PIZARRO AND ROLLA. 



Enter Guards. 

Pizarro. — Seize this discovered fiend, who sought to kill 
your leader. 

Elvira. — Touch me not, at the peril of your souls : I 
am your prisoner, and will follow you. But thou, their 
triumphant leader, first shall hear me. 

Pizarro. — Why am I not obeyed ? Tear her hence ! 

Elvira. — 'Tis past — but didst thou know my story, Rolla, 
thou wouldst pity me. 

Rolla. — From my soul I do pity thee. 

Pizarro. — Villains ! drag her to the dungeon ! — prepare 
the torture instantly. 

Elvira. — Soldiers, but a moment more — 'tis to applaud 
your general. It is to tell the astonished world that for 
once, Pizarro's sentence is an act of justice : yes, rack me 
with the sharpest tortures that ever agonized the human 
frame, it will be justice. Yes, bid the minions of thy fury 
wrench forth the sinews of those arms that have caressed — 
and even have defended thee ! And when thou shalt bid 
them tear me to my death, hoping that thy unshrinking 
ears may at last be feasted with the music of my cries, I 
will not utter one shriek or groan ; but to the last gasp my 
body's patience shall deride thy vengeance, as my soul 
defies thy powers. 

Pizarro. — Hearest thou the wretch whose hands were 
even now prepared for murder? 

Rolla. — Yes ! and if her accusation's false, thou wilt not 
shrink from hearing her ; if true, thy barbarity cannot make 
her suffer the pangs thy conscience will inflict on thee. 

Elvira. — And now, farewell, world ! — Rolla, farewell ! — 
farewell {io Pizarro) thou condemned of heaven ! for re- 
pentance and remorse, I know w;ll never touch thy heart. — 
We shall meet again — Ha ! be it thy horror here to know 



PIZARRO AND ROLLA. 211 

that we shall meet hereafter ! To me the thought is mad- 
ness ! — what will it be to thee? 

Pizarro. — A moment's more delay 

Elvira. — I have spoken. I go to meet my destiny. 
That I could not live nobly, has been Pizarro' s act ; that I 
will die nobly, shall be my own. {She goes out guarded.) 

Pizarro. — Rolla, I would not thou, a warrior, valiant 
and renowned shouldst credit the vile tales of this frantic 
woman. The cause of all this fury — oh ! a passion for the 
rebel youth, Alonzo, now my prisoner. 

Rolla. — Alonzo is not now thy prisoner. 

Pizarro. — How ? 

Rolla. — I came to rescue him — to deceive the guard. 
I have succeeded ; I remain thy prisoner. 

Pizarro. — Alonzo fled ! Is then the vengeance dearest 
to my heart never to be gratified ? 

Rolla. — Dismiss such passions from thy heart, then 
thou'lt consult its peace. 

Pizarro. — I can face all enemies that dare confront 
me — I cannot war against my nature. 

Rolla. — Then, Pizarro, ask not to be deemed a hero : to 
triumph o'er ourselves is the only conquest where fortune 
makes no claim. 

Pizarro. — Peruvian, thou shalt not find me to thee un- 
grateful or ungenerous. Return to your countrymen — you 
are at liberty. 

Rolla. — Thou dost act in this as honor and as duty bid 
thee. 

Pizarro. — I cannot but admire thee, Rolla : I would we 
might be friends. 

Rolla. — Farewell ! pity Elvira ! become the friend of 
virtue — and thou wilt be mine. {He goes out?) 

Pizarro. — Ambition ! tell me what is the phantom I 



212 PIZARRO AND ROLLA. 

have followed? Where is the one delight which it has 
made my own? My fame is the mark of envy, my love 
the dupe of treachery, my revenge defeated and rebuked by 
the rude horror of a savage foe, before whose native dignity 
of soul I have sunk confounded and subdued. I would I 
could retrace my steps — I cannot. Would I could evade 
my own reflections ! No, thought and memory are my 
hell ! (He goes out.) 

CURTAIN. 



RAIMOND RELEASED. 



Adapted from " The Vespers of Palermo," by Mrs. Hemans. 



CHARACTERS. 

Raimond, a vigorous young incut, of frank, generous counte- 
nance. 

Anselmo, a priest of middle age. 

Vittoria, an elderly woman of very queenly bearing. 

Situation. — The death of Conradin, king of Sicily, at the 

invasion by the French, prevented Viitoria from mar- 

rying him and made her an insatiate hater of the French 

who then ruled the island. After many years the father 

#/" Raimond heads some patriots who regain control of 

Sicily. Raimond nobly refuses to slaughter without 

warning, even his enemies. He is found guilty of 

treasoji and cast into ptdson to be killed the next 

day ; but the French re • appear before the gates of 

Palermo, and fust here comes the scene following. It 

is in the prison. Anselmo comes to give him ghostly 

counsel. Vittoria searches for Anselmo and finds 

him in the prison cell. Raimond is released to call the 

Sicilians back to their duty. 

Raimond and Anselmo. 

Raimond. — And Constance,* then, is safe ! — Heaven 

bless thee, father ! 

* With whom Raimond is in love. 

213 



214 RAIMOND RELEASED. 

Good angels bear such comfort. 

Anselmo. — All that faith 

Can yield of comfort, shall assuage her woes ; 
And still whate'er betide, the light of Heaven 
Rests on her gentle heart. But thou, my son, 
Is thy young spirit master'd and prepared 
For nature's fearful and mysterious change? 

Raimond. — Ay, father ! of my brief remaining task 
The least part is to die ! — It was my hope 
To leave a name, whose echo, from the abyss 
Of time should rise, and float upon the winds, 
Into the far hereafter ; there to be 
A trumpet-sound, a voice from the deep tomb 
Murmuring — Awake ! Arise ! — But this is past ! 
Erewhile, and it had seemed enough of shame, 
To sleep forgotten in the dust — but now 
Oh, God ! — the undying record of my grave 
Will be — Here sleeps a traitor ! — One whose crime, 
Was — to deem brave men might find nobler weapons 
Than the cold murderer's dagger ! 

Anselmo. — Oh, my son, 

Subdue these troubled thoughts ! Thou wouldst not change 
Thy lot for theirs, o'er whose dark streams will hang 
The avenging shadows, which the blood-stained soul 
Doth conjure from the dead ! 

Raimond. — Thou'rt right — Would th' hour 

To hush these passionate throbbings were at hand ! 

Anselmo. — It will not be to-day. Hast thou not heard — 
But no — the rush, the trampling, and the stir 
Of this great city, arming in her haste, 
Pierce not these dungeon-depths. — The foe hath reached 
Our gates, and all Palermo's youth, and all 
Her warrior-men, are marshall'd, and gone forth 



RAIMOND RELEASED. 215 

In that high hope which makes realities, 
To the red field. Thy father leads them on. 

Raimond {starting up). — They are gone forth! my 
father leads them on ! 
All — all Palermo's youth ! — No ! one is left, 
Shut out from glory's race ! They are gone forth I- — 
Ay, now the soul of battle is abroad, 
It burns upon the air ! — And such things are 
Even now — and I am here ! 

Anselmo. — Alas, be calm ! 

To the same grave ye press — thou that dost pine 
Beneath a weight of chains, and they that rule 
The fortunes of the fight. 

Raimond. — Yet not the same ; 

Their graves who fall in this day's fight, will be 
As altars to — — 

Yittoria rushes in wildly, as if pursued. 

Yittoria. — Anselmo ! art thou found ? 
Haste, haste, or all is lost ! Perchance thy voice, 
And prophet mien, may stay the fugitives, 
Or shame them back to die. 

Anselmo. — The fugitives ! 

What words are these ! — The sons of Sicily 
Fly not before the foe ? 

Vittoria. — That I should say 

It is too true ! 

Anselmo. — And thou — thou bleedest, lady ! 

Vittoria. — Peace, heed not me, when Sicily is lost ! 
I stood upon the walls and watched, — when, lo ! 
That false Alberti led his recreant vassals 
To join th' invader's host. 

Raimond. — His country's curse 

Rest on the slave for ever ! 



2l6 RAIMOND RELEASED. 

Vittoria. — Then distrust 

E'en of their noble leaders, and dismay 
That swift contagion, on Palermo's lands 
Came like a deadly blight. They fled ! — Oh, shame ! 

Raimond. — And I am here / Shall there be power, O 
God ! 
In the roused energies of fierce despair, 
To burst my heart — and not to rend my chains? 
Oh, for one moment of the thunderbolt 
To set the strong man free ! 

Vittoria {she has been gazing earnestly at him during 
this speech). — Why, 'twere a deed 
Worthy the fame and blessing of all time, 
To loose thy bonds — for from thy kindled brow 
Looks out thy lofty soul ! — Arise ! Go forth ! 
And rouse the noble heart of Sicily 
Unto high deeds again. Anselm'o, haste ; 
Unbind him ! Let my spirit still prevail, 
Ere I depart — for the strong hand of death 
Is on me now. {She sinks back against a pillar.) 

Anselmo. — O Heaven ! the life-blood streams 
Fast from thy heart — thy troubled eyes grow dim. 
Who hath done this? 

Viitoria. — Before the gates I stood, 

And in the name of him, the loved and lost, 
With whom I soon shall be, all vainly strove 
To stay the shameful flight. Then from the foe, 
Fraught with my summons, to his viewlesss home, 
Came the fleet shaft which pierced me. 

Anselmo. — Yet, oh yet, 

It may not be too late. {He shoitts.) Help, help ! 

Vittoria.— Away ! 

Bright is the hour which brings me liberty ! 



RAIMOND RELEASED. 21 7 

Attendants enter. 
Haste, be those fetters riven ! — Unbar the gates, 
And set the captive free ! {They hesitate.} Know ye not 

her 
Who would have worn your country's diadem? 

Attendants. — Oh! lady, we obey. (They take off Rai- 
mond's chains.) 

Ralmond {springing up) . — Is this no dream ? 
And am I free? — Now for bright arms of proof, 
A helm, a keen-edged falchion, and e'en yet 
My father may be saved ! 

Vittoria. — Away, be strong ! 

And let thy battle-word, to rule the storm, 
Be — Conradin. {He rushes out.) Oh ! for one hour of 

life, 
To hear that name blent with th' exulting shout 
Of victory ! It will not be ! — A mightier power 
Doth summon me away. 

Anselmo. — To purer worlds 

Raise thy last thoughts in hope. 

Vittoria. — Yes ! he is there 

All glorious in his beauty ! — Conradin ! 
Death parted us — and death shall reunite ! 
He will not stay — it is all darkness now ! 
Night gathers o'er my spirit.. (She dies.) 

Anselmo. She is gone ! 

It is an awful hour which stills the heart 
That beat so proudly once. Have mercy, Heaven ! {He 
kneels beside her.) 

CURTAIN. 



MRS. HARWOOD'S SECRET. 



Adapted from "The Story of a Governess," by Mrs. M. O. W. Oliphant. 



CHARACTERS. 

John Harding, a powerful, kindly intelligent man of middle 
age, physician from Liverpool. 

Adolph.us Harwood, an old man with pale face and long 
white beard and hair — insane over business irregular- 
ities. 

Dolff Harwood, his son, a large, rather dull young man of 
obstinate character. 

Charles Meredith, a bright handsome man who is to be 
married to Gussy Harwood. 

Vicars, valet to Mr. Harwood, a strong brusque man. 

Mrs. Julia Harwood, an old lady, so paralyzed she can 
scarcely walk, and has to be wheeled about in a chair. 

Gussy Harwood, her eldest daughter. 
Julia Harwood, her youngest child. 

Janet Summerhayes, governess to Julia— about to be 
married to Dr. Harding. 

Situation. — Mrs. Harwood for years has kept her husband 
Adolphus Harwood, now hopelessly insane, in a sup- 
posedly unoccupied wing of her house. By accident 
the family discovers the secret of the wing, but they do 

218 



MRS. HARWOOD'S SECRET. 219 

not know that the insanity has behind it dishonest 
financial operations. Janet, Julia's governess, anxious 
to get away from so much horror, remembers Dr. 
Harding, whose hand she rejected six months ago, and 
sends hi?n a note of acceptance. Dr. Harding hastens 
from Liverpool to claim her as his bride. He is greatly 
surprised to discover that Adolphus Harwood, who 
victimized him years before, still lives. His sense of 
justice dominates him, but the sight of the piteous figure 
of the white-haired old man changes his resolution, 
and he departs — with his bride-to-be. 

Scene I. 

Mr. Harwood enters followed closely by his valet, Vicars ; 
then enter Meredith and Gussy, Dolff and Julia. 
Mr. Harwood (in the ce7ilre of platform). — I know what 
you've come for. I can pay up ! I can pay up ! I've 
plenty of money, and I can pay up ! But I won't be taken, 
not if it costs me my life. 

Vicars {behind him, holding his arms). — Come, sir; 
come, sir, no more of this; they'll take you for a fool. 
Mrs. Harwood staggers in, pushing Janet before her. 

Mrs. Harwood. — Take him back to his room, Vicars ; 
take him back. Adolphus! (She stands erect in front of 
the maniac and puts her hand on his breast.) Adolphus, 
go back, be silent, calm yourself. There is no need for 
you to say anything. I am here to take care of you. Let 
Vicars lead you back to your room. 

Mr. Harwood. — I will not be taken, I will not be taken ! 
I can pay up ! I have got money, plenty of money. I 
will pay up ! (He struggles in vain to free himself from the 
grasp of Vicars.) Vicars, get it out, and give it to your 
mistress. The money — the money, you know, to pay 



2 20 MRS. HARWOOD'S SECRET. 

everybody up. Only {he looks to Mrs. Harwood ivho stands 
leaning on the table, and he clasps his hands and whimpers) 
don't — don't let them take me away ! 

Gussy {falling on her knees and covering her face with 
her hands). — Oh, mamma, I can't bear it — I can't bear it. 

Dolff {stepping forwa?-d and speaking roughly). — Who is 
he ? I know nothing about this, nothing. {He looks round.) 
I hope everybody will believe me. I want to know who 
he is. {Janet quietly slips out.) 

Mrs. Harwood {She pays no attention to any but Vicars 
and the insane man. Vicars takes an old, large pocket- 
book front an inside pocket of his patient and hands it to 
her with a smile. She takes it and tosses it on t/ie table). — 
There are in this pocket-book old scraps of paper of no 
value. This is what I am to- pay his debts with. He has 
given it to me twenty times before. I get tired in the end 
of playing the old game over and over. 

Dolff. — Mother, who is he? You have had him in 
your house in secret, never seeing the light of day, and I, 
your son, never knew. Who is he? 

Vicars {struggling with Mr. Harwood) . — I can answer 
for nothing, Mrs. Harwood, if .you keep him with a lot of 
folks. He is working himself up into a fury again. 

Mr. Harwood {tivis ting about). — She has got my money, 
and she throws it down for anybody to pick up. My 
money ! there's money there to pay everything. Why 
don't you pay these people and let 'em go — pay them, pay 
them and let them go ! or else give me back my money. 
{He struggles, his eyes blaze.) 

Mrs. Harwood {she takes up the pocket-book, balances it 
a moment and hands it to Vicar). — You think there may 
be a fortune here — enough to pay? And he thinks so. 
Give it to him, Vicars. We've tried to keep it all quiet, 



MRS. HARWOOD S SECRET. 22 1 

but it seems to have failed. Take him back to his apart- 
ments, Vicars. 

Mr. Harwood {he holds pocket-book in both hands and 
kisses it again and again). — As long as I have got this they 
can do nothing to me. ( Vicars takes him out.) 

Gussy {stepping up to Mrs. Harwood). — Mamma shall 
we go away? Whatever there may be to be said or ex- 
plained, it cannot be done now. If any wrong has been 
done him, I don't know of it. I thought it was nothing 
but good. 

Mrs. Harwood {losing her self command and her 
strength). — Xo wrong has been done him — none — none. 
Children you may not believe me, since I've kept it secret 
from vou. There has been no wrong to him — none — none. 
Evervthing has been done for him. Look at his room and 
vou will see. 

Dolff {obstinately). — Who is he? 

Mrs. Harwood. — You have no thought of me. You see 
me standing here, come here to defend you all, in despera- 
tion for you, and you never ask how I am to get back to 
my chair, whether it will kill me — {they start away). Xo, 
no, Janet has gone, who was a stranger and asked no ques- 
tions, but only helped a poor woman half mad with trouble 
and distress. — Ah ! he could go mad and get free — he who 
was the cause of it all ; but I have had to keep my sanity 
and my courage and bear it all, and look as if nothing was 
the matter for fifteen years. For whom? For you, chil- 
dren, to give you a happy life, to do away with all disgrace, 
to give you every advantage. — Xow go away all of you. 
( Guss\ and Meredith go out, while Julia offers her mother 
her arm.) Yes, I'll take your arm, Julia : you have not 
been a good child, but you know no better. Get me to my 
chair before I drop down, for I am very heavy 



222 MRS. HARWOOD S SECRET. 

Dolff {stolidly) . — I am not a boy any longer. You have 
made me a man. Who is it you have been hiding for years 
upstairs ? 

Mrs. Harwood {with a little fierce laugh). — For my 
pleasure, for my amusement, as anybody may see. 

Dolff. — Whether it is for your amusement or not, I am of 
age, and I have a right to know who is living in my house. 

Mrs. Harwood. — In your house ! {Excitedly^) He has 
neither been tried, nor sentenced, nor anything proved 
against him. All that has to be gone through, before he 
can be put aside. And at this moment everything's his — 
the roof that covers you, the money you have been spend- 
ing. It is no more your house — your house ! — than it is 
Julia's. It is your father's house. 

Dolff {aghast). — My father is dead. 

Mrs. Harwood. — Yes, and might have remained so, had 
it not been for your cowardly folly and Vicars' infatuation 
for you. Had he not sense to see that a fool like you 
would spoil it all? 

Dolff. — You are dreaming, you are mad, you are telling 
me another lie. 

Julia. — How dare you speak to her like that? I should 
be ashamed to look any one in the face. Go away, go away, 
and leave us quiet. {He goes out, and Julia helps her 
mother slowly out.) 

Scene II. 

Mrs. Harwood is seated in her invalid ' s chair a little to one 
side of the centre of the platform ; beyond her is Julia. 
Enter from opposite side Dr. Harding with Janet on 
his arm. 
Mrs. Harwood. — Why, Janet ! 

Janet {falteringly). — I have brought an old friend to see 
you. 



MRS. HAR WOOD'S SECRET. 223 

Dr. Harding. — John Harding, at your service, Mrs. 
Harwood, now as long ago. 

Mrs. Harwood (greatly dismayed'). — Oh ! 

Janet. — Dr. Harding has come to take me away with him. 

Dr. Harding. — Yes, Janet has at last consented to make 
me happy and we shall be married immediately. 

Mrs. Harwood (she whispers aside to Julia.) — Don't let 
Dolff come in here. 

Julia (aloud). — Why not? (Her mother merely ptishes 
her away.) 

Mrs. Harwood. — Things have changed very much for us 
all ; I have a daughter on the eve of marriage, like you, Dr. 

Harding a man who does not marry keeps so much 

longer young. You may remember my Gussy as a child 

Dr. Harding. — I remember my little wife that is to be 
as a child, and she might well have despised an old fellow. 
Yes, things have changed. It was very good for me as it 
turns out that I could not go on in my old way. I've been 
a hardworking man, and kept very close to it for a long 
time, and now . things are mending with me. I shall be 
able to give this little thing what they all like — a carriage 
and finery and all that. I am going back — to the old 
place, Mrs. Harwood 

Mrs. Harwood (with a start). — To Liverpool. 

Dr. Harding. — Yes, to Liverpool ; they had heard of me, 
it appears, and then some of the old folks remembered I 
was a townsman. You have not kept up much connection 
with the old place, Mrs. Harwood. 

Mrs. Harwood. — None at all ; you may suppose it would 
not be very pleasant for me. 

Dr. Harding. — Perhaps not (he drums a little with his 
finger on his knee) ; and yet I don't know why, for there 
was* always a great deal of sympathy with you. 



224 MRS. HARWOOD S SECRET. 

Mrs. Harwood (nervously and eagerly). — Dr. Harding, 
may I ask you a favor? It is, please, not to speak of me 
to any of my old friends. You may think it strange— there 

is nobody else in the room, is there, Janet? but I would 

rather the children did not know more than is necessary 
about the past. 

Dr. Harding {bluntly). — I understand ; and I honor you, 
madam. 

Mrs. Harwood (hurriedly). — I ask for no honor, so long 
as it is thought that I have done my duty by the children. 

Dr. Harding. — I should think there could not be much 
doubt of that. 

After a moment of silence, enter Dolff, followed closely 
by Julia. 

Mrs. Harwood (recovering from a feeling of despair at 
sight of Dolff).— My son, Dr. Harding. Dolff, Dr. Hard- 
ing is a friend of Janet's and — and an old acquaintance 
of mine. 

Dr. Harding (rising and giving the young man his 
hand). — I did not know your son was grown up. I thought 
he was the youngest. 

Mrs. Harwood. — No, it is Julia who is the youngest. 

Dr. Harding (heartily). — It is quite curious to find my- 
self among old friends. I expected to find only my little 
Janet, and here I am surrounded by people whom I knew 
in the old days in Liverpool before she was born. 

Dolff. — But we have nothing to do with Liverpool. 

Mrs. Harwood. — Welsh. 

Dr. Harding. — Ah, yes, by origin ; the little property's 
there, is'nt it? But Harwood has been a well-known name 
in Liverpool for longer than any of us can recollect. I re- 
member (sadly) when it was talked of like the Bank of 
England. 



MRS. HAR WOOD'S SECRET. 225 

Mrs. Harwood {with a great effort at self control, sitting 
bolt upright}. — Oh, I am not fond of those old recollections ; 
they always lead to something sad. 

Dolff. — This is very interesting to me for I never heard 
of it before. My mother has told us very little, Dr. Hard- 
ing ; I should be very grateful for a little information. 

Dr. Harding. — My dear young fellow, I daresay your 
mother's very wise. Least said is soonest mended. That's 
all over and done with. It all went to pieces, you know, 
when your father {lie is embarrassed for a moment} — when 
your father — died. (Mrs. Harwood sinks back with a long 
breath almost swoo7ii?ig.) 

Dolff. — If you think that this is satisfactory to me, you 
are making an immense mistake. Why should least said be 
soonest mended? Is there any disgrace belonging to our 
name ? Besides, my father is not dead. 

Dr. Harding {jumping from his chair as if stung). — 
What? What? Adolphus Harwood not dead ? My God ! 
Adolphus Harwood? What does this mean? {Mrs. Har- 
wood makes convulsive efforts to speak and to rise from her 
chair.) 

Dolff. — I don't know why you speak in such a tone. 
There is no harm, I suppose, in my father — being alive. 
We never knew till the other day. Perhaps she {pointing 
to his mother,) can tell you why. Is there any harm in my 
father — not having died? 

Dr. Harding. — Harm ! Adolphus Harwood alive ! — 
harm ! Only this harm — that I can't let old friendship 
stand in the way. I dare not do injustice ; he must be 
given up to answer for his ill-doings. Harm ! The fool ! 
He never did but what was the worst for him ! to live till 
now — w ith all the misery and the ruin that he brought 

Dolff {seizing the doctor by the breast). — Stop ! Tell 



2 26 MRS. HARWOOD'S SECRET. 

me what he has done? — I knew — I knew there was more 
in it; what has he done? 

Dr. Harding {flinging the young man off). — Done! 
ruined everybody that ever trusted in him ! Don't stop me, 
young man ! Keep yourself clear of him ! I cannot help 
it ; I am sorry for your sake — but he must be given up. 
{He picks up his hat and begins to button his coat.) 

Dolff. — To what? To what? {He jumps in front of 
Dr. Harding and raises his arm excitedly as if to strike.) 
Look here ! to what? You don't stir a foot from here till 
you tell me. 

Mrs. Harwood {stumbling in between the tzao men, put- 
ting one hand on Dr. Harding's b?-east and pushing her son 
away with the other). — John Harding ! John Harding, 
listen to me! He is mad — mad, do you hear? Mad! 
What is that but dead ? 

Dolff. — Mother, let this man answer me ! 

Mrs. Harwood. — Oh, go away, go away with your folly ! — 
He is mad, John Harding ! He came back to me mad — 
could I turn my husband to the door, give him up to the 
police? Listen to me {she seizes his coat to hold herself up) 
you can see him yourself if you doubt me — he is mad 
{she shrieks) . Mad as a March hare, — silly ! Oh, John 
Harding, John Harding, hear what I have got to say ! 

Dr. Harding {he suddenly changes, becomes a professional 
man ; he throws down his hat and holds her fast by the 
elbows). — Wheel her chair forward. Young Harwood, 
gently, send for her maid. Heavens, boy, be gentle ; do 
you want to kill your mother? Janet, come round here 
and put the cushions straight, to support her head. There, 
quiet all of you. Let her rest ; and you, Janet, give her 
air. 

Dolff {passionately). — She has done it before. Oh, I 



MRS. HARWOOD'S SECRET. 2 27 

am not taken in, mother. Let her alone, man, and answer 



me 



Dr. Harding {he pushes the young man away) . — Go to 
the devil ! You confounded cub, be quiet, and let the poor 
woman come to herself ! {Dolff goes to one side and with 
an injured air luatches affairs.) Give me the fan {to Janet). 
Get some wine and moisten her lips. Such an effort as 
that to a woman in her state might be fatal. She must 
have the constitution of an elephant. Once before, did 
you say? Janet, my little darling, you're made for a doc- 
tor's wife. Now raise her head a little. There ! Now I 
hope she'll come to. 

Dolff {he comes up and strikes him on the shoulder) . — 
You make yourself busy about my mother. There's nothing 
the matter with my mother : but you've got to explain to 
me — What does it mean? What do you want with him? 
What has he done ? I never knew he was there till the 
other day. And the,n I never suspected he was my father. 
Oh, don't you know when one never has had a father, what 
one thinks he must have been? And then to see — that ! 
But I must have satisfaction. What has he done? What 
are you going to do? 

Enter Gussy and Meredith hastily. 

Gussy {glancing at Mrs. Harwood) . — Is my mother ill? 
Something has gone wrong. Dolff, who is this gentleman? 
And for heaven's sake tell me what is it now? What has 
gone wrong? {She goes to her brother's side and stands 
looking on.) 

Dr. Harding. — I presume that you are Miss Harwood, but 
I cannot explain this matter to you. The less you know of 
it the better, my dear young people. I have no ill-feeling 
to your poor father — not the least, not the least : though 
I was one of the victims, I hope I've forgiven him freely. 



2 28 MRS. HAR WOOD'S SECRET. 

But justice is justice. If Adolphus Harwood is in this house, 
he must be given up. 

Meredith. — Dear Gussy, will you take my advice and go 
away, and get Dolff to go? Let me speak to this gentle- 
man. I know all about the business affairs. I am to ap- 
pear for your mother, you know. Let me speak to him 
and hear what he has to say. (She gives a faint smile. 
They all stand round the doctor, as if hemming him in.) 

Dr. Harding {with emotion). — God knows how I feel for 
you, your poor children. You break my heart ; but if Adol- 
phus Harwood has been living quietly here, living in com- 
fort and luxury here, after bringing so many to ruin 

Meredith. — He has been living concealed in a couple 
of rooms for fifteen years. I don't know who you are, or 
what right you have to be here, or to inquire into the 
affairs of this family. 

Gussy. — Oh, hush ! He will be a friend, he has a kind 
face ! 

Julia. — His name is Dr. Harding, he came for Janet, 
but mamma said he was an old friend : and Dolff told him 
by chance that he — he, you know — was living and not 
dead. 

Dr. Harding. — This is all mere madness. I did not 
want to know anything of the affairs of the family, but I 
have my duty to do 1 must do what is my duty. 

Mrs. Harwood (faintly from her chair) . — See him ; see 
him, see him : a doctor, he will know. (All turn round 
startled.) 

Meredith (seizing the doctor's arm). — Come here and 
look at the man for yourself. (They step to the door and 
lookout. All watch them. The following dialogue is heard 
from without.) 

Harwood (without ) . — Why do you bring me in, when I 



MRS. HARWOOD'S SECRET. 229 

don't want to come in, Vicars? Dark — I like it when its 
dark and nobody can see. 

Vicars (without). — It don't do you no good, sir, to be 
out in the dark. 

Harwood {without'). — Ah! there's an open door. I'm 
going to see them, Vicars. Their mother tells them lies, 
but when they know I have it all here to pay up 

Vicars {without). — No, sir; you can't go in there to- 
night. 

Harwood. — Why not to-night? Did she say so? She 
wants to get my money from me, that's what it is ! Swear, 
Vicars, you'll never tell them where I keep my money ! 
She got it and gave it to that fellow, but it came back, eh, 
Vicars ? It always comes back. Ha, ha, ha ! {Laughing 
foolishly?) Where are you taking me? You are taking me 
upstairs. You want me to be murdered for my money in 
that dark hole upstairs. (A door without closes.) 

Meredith (as they turn back to platform). — Is this the 
man you are going to give up to punishment? 

Dr. Harding {He turns away and covers his face with 
his hands. In the intense silence he turns back and meets 
Mrs. Norwood's agonized gaze). — What does he mean 
about the money? 

Mrs. Harwood. — He means what he thinks he has in 

his pocket-book money to pay everybody. Oh, John 

Harding, that's no dishonest meaning. He gives it 

to me, to pay up and then he is restless till he has it 

back again. There's nothing but old papers, old bills, 
worth nothing. He thinks {eagerly) that it is the money he 
took to Spain. {She has forgotten herself.) 

Dr. Harding. — And where is the money he took to Spain ? 

Mrs. Harwood ( She hesitates, looks round and then 
bursts into hysterical laughter). — He ! He ! He ! He 



23O MRS. HARWOOD'S SECRET. 

thinks that I know everything. How can I tell ? Where 
are the snows of last year? 

Dr. Harding {after a moment' 's thought'). — Fear not, I 
shall do nothing, — Come, Janet, come with me. You have 
cheated me out of six months. I might have had you six 
months ago. 

Janet. — Oh, no, no, Dr. Harding. {Dr. Harding and 
Janet go out as curtain falls}) 

CURTAIN. 



INNOCENCE REWARDED. 

Adapted from Goldsmith's " Vicar of Wakefield." 



CHARACTERS. 

Dr. Primrose, Vicar of Wakefield. 
Mrs. Primrose, his wife. 

George, his oldest son, who is an officer in the army. 
Olivia, his oldest daughter, who has run away with the 
landlord, who afterward abandoned her. 

Sophia, another daughter, in love with Mr. Burchell. 

Moses, another son. 

Squire Thornhill, a young itian, landlord to the Primroses. 

Mr. Burchell, a poor but well-educated man, who becomes 
a friend to the family, and afterward turns out to be 
Sir William Thornhill, uncle to the landlord. 

Mr. Jenkinson, a middle-aged man who has lived on his 
tvits till he finds himself in prison, and now repents. 

The Jailer, and two servants. 

Baxter, a ve?y tall, long-legged man, with red hair. 

Situation. — Through the villainy of Squire Thornhill, Dr. 
Primrose has been thrown into jail for debt. His 
family are with him. Jenkinson recognizes him as a 
former victim and tries to repair the wrong by kindness 
in the prison. Olivia has stopped outside because of 
bad health consequent on her disgrace from the land- 

231 



232 INNOCENCE REWARDED. 

lord's abandonment of her. Dr. Primrose believes her 
dead at the openi?ig of this sce?ie. 

The scene is a room in prison. Dr. Primrose is 
lying in a very weak condition on a couch against the 
wall. 

Scene I. 

Jenkinson enters the room where Dr. Primrose is already 
lying o?i a couch of some rough material. 
Primrose (to Jenkinson). — Well, sir, you discover the 
temper of the man that oppresses me. But let him use 
me as he will, I shall soon be free, in spite of all his bolts 
to restrain me. I am now drawing towards an abode that 
looks brighter as I approach it ; and though I leave a 
helpless family of orphans behind me, yet they will not be 
utterly forsaken ; some friend, perhaps, will be found to 
assist them for the sake of their poor father, and some may 
charitably relieve them for the sake of their heavenly 
Father. 

Enter Mrs. Primrose, with looks of terror, vainly struggling 
to speak. 

(To Mrs. Primrose.') — Why, my love, will you thus in- 
crease my afflictions by your own? What though no sub- 
missions can turn our severe master, though he has doomed 
me to die in this place of wretchedness, and though we 
have lost a darling child, yet still you will find comfort in 
your other children when I shall be no more. 

Mrs. Primrose. — We have indeed lost a darling child. 
My Sophia, my dearest, is gone ; snatched from us, carried 
off by ruffians ! 

Jenkinson. — How, madam ; Miss Sophia carried of! by 
villains ? sure it cannot be 1 



INNOCENCE REWARDED. 233 

Mrs. Primrose {through her sobs) . — Yes ! as we were 
walking together a little way out of the village, a post-chaise 
and pair drove up to us and stopped instantly ; then a well- 
dressed man, but not Mr. Thornhill, stepped out, clasped 
my daughter round the waist, and forcing her in, bade the 
postilion drive on, so that they were out of sight in a mo- 
ment. 

Primrose. — Now, the sum of my miseries is made up, 
nor is it in the power of anything on earth to give me an- 
other pang. What ! not one left ! — not to leave me one ! — 
The monster ! — The child that was next my heart ! — she 
had the beauty of an angel, and almost the wisdom of an 
angel. — {To Jenkins -on.) But support that woman, nor let 
her fall. — Not to leave me one ! 

Mrs. Primrose. — Alas ! my husband, you seem to want 
comfort even more than I. Our distresses are great, but I 
could bear this and more, if I saw you but easy. {Moses 
enters with a letter which he has just read in his hand, but 
stops a moment as he comprehends the situation.) They 
may take away my- children, and all the world, if they leave 
me but you. 

Moses. — My dear father, I hope there is still something 
that will give you an interval of satisfaction ; for I have a 
letter from my brother George 

Primrose {interrupting). — What of him, child? Does 
he know our misery ? I hope my boy is exempt from any 
part of what his wretched family suffers. 

Moses. — Yes, sir, he is perfectly gay, cheerful, and happy. 
His letter brings nothing but good news; he is the favorite 
of his colonel, who promises to procure him the very next 
lieutenancy that becomes vacant. 

Mrs. Primrose. — And are you sure of all this? 

Moses. — You shall see the letter. {He hands it to het 



234 INNOCENCE REWARDED. 

and she reads it to herself. Then he goes out, followed by 
Jen kin son.) 

Primrose.— -In all our miseries, what thanks have we not to 
return, that one at least of our family is exempted from what 
we suffer ! Heaven be his guard, and keep my boy thus 
happy, to be the support of his widowed mother, and the 
father of our two babes, which is all the patrimony I can 
now bequeath him ! ( Considerable disturbance is heard 
outside. It dies away and the sound of clanking chains is 
heard. The?i the Jailer enters with George in chains. 
Dr. Primrose starts up with horror.} My George ! my 
George ! and do I behold thee thus? Wounded — fettered ! 
Is this thy happiness? Is this the manner you return to 
me? Oh, that this sight could break my heart at once, 
and let me die ! {The Jailer goes out.) 

George (with a faltering voice). — Where, sir, is your 
fortitude ? I must suffer \ my life is forfeited, and let them 
take it. Sir, let it be your care now to fit me for that vile 
death I must shortly suffer. 

Primrose. — My child you must not die ; I am sure no 
offence of thine can deserve so vile a punishment. 

George. — Mine, sir, I fear is an unpardonable crime. 
When I received my mother's letter from home, I imme- 
diately came down, determined to punish the betrayer of 
our honor, and sent him an order to meet me. He an- 
swered not in person, but by despatching four of his domes- 
tics to seize me. I wounded one who first assaulted me, 
and I fear desperately ; but the rest made me their prisoner. 
The proofs are undeniable ; I have sent a challenge, and as 
I am the first transgressor upon the statute, I see no hopes 
of pardon. But you have often charmed me with your 
lessons of fortitude ; let me now, sir, find them in your 
example. 



INNOCENCE REWARDED. 235 

Primrose. — And, my son, you shall find them. From 
this moment I break from my heart all the ties that held it 
down to earth, and will prepare to fit us both for eternity. 

Enter Jenkinson, who pauses for a moment. 

Yes, my son, I will point out the way, and my soul shall 
guide yours in the ascent, for we will take our flight together. 

Jenkinson. — My dear sir, there is news of your daughter. 
She was seen two hours ago in a strange gentleman's com- 
pany. They stopped in the village for refreshment and 

Enter Jailer in haste. 
Jailer. — Your daughter is found, sir. 

Enter Moses, running. 

Moses. — Sister Sophia is here, and is coming up with 
our old friend Mr. Burchell. {The Jailer goes out with 
George, and Jenkinson follows.) 

Enter Sophia, rushing to kiss her father and her mother ; 
Jollowed by Mr. Burchell. 

Sophia. — Here, papa, is the brave man to whom I owe 
my delivery ; to this gentleman's intrepidity I am indebted 

for my happiness and (Mr. Burchell interrupts her 

with a kiss.) 

Primrose. — Ah ! Mr. Burchell, this is but a wretched 
habitation you now find us in ; and we are now very dif- 
ferent from what you last saw us. You were ever our friend ; 
but after the vile usage you then received at my hands, I 
am almost ashamed to behold your face. Yet I hope you'll 
forgive me, as I was deceived by a base ungenerous wretch, 
who, under the mask of friendship, has undone me. 

Burchell. — It is impossible that I should forgive you, 
as you never deserved my resentment. I partly saw your 



236 INNOCENCE REWARDED. 

delusion then, and as it was out of my power to restrain, I 
could only pity it. 

Primrose. — It was ever my conjecture that your mind 
was noble ; but now I find it so. — Welcome, then, my child ! 
and thou, her gallant deliverer, a thousand welcomes ! 
Though our cheer is but wretched, yet our hearts are 
ready to receive you. And now, Mr. Burchell, as you have 
delivered my girl, if you think her a recompense, she is 
yours : if you can stoop to an alliance with a family so poor 
as mine, take her • obtain her consent, — as I know you 
have her heart, — and you have mine. 

Burchell. — But I suppose, sir, that you are apprised of 
my circumstances and of my incapacity to support her as 
she deserves? 

Primrose. — If your present objection be meant as an 
evasion of my offer, I desist ; but I know no man so worthy 
to deserve her as you ; and if I could give her thousands, 
and thousands sought her from me, yet my honest brave 
Burchell should be my dearest choice. 

Burchell {turning abruptly). — Can I be furnished with 
refreshments from the next inn? 

Primrose. — Probably there will be no difficulty. Moses, 
my boy, go call the jailer. {Moses goes out and imme- 
diately returns with the Jailer.) 

Burchell. — Mr. Jailer, can you provide us with a table 
and order us from the nearest inn the best dinner possible 
upon such short notice? 

Jailer {with a low bow). — Very readily, sir. 

Primrose. — I wish, too, — Ah, Sophia, you did not know 
your brother was here. {To the Jailer.) Cannot he come 
to share this little interval of satisfaction? And Mr. Jen- 
kinson, my fellow-prisoner? 

Jailer. — Certainly, sir. {He goes out. Sophia looks in 



INNOCENCE REWARDED. 237 

dumb amazement from one to another, and as George enters 
runs to meet him, recoiling at sight of chains.) 

Burchell. — Is your son's name George ? 

Primrose. — That is his name. {Burchell seems lost in 
thought?) 

Jailer enters with George, and then retires. Enter Jen- 
kinson. 

Come on, my son ; though we are fallen very low, yet 
Providence has been pleased to grant us some small relaxa- 
tion from pain. Thy sister is restored to us and there is 
her deliverer : to that brave man it is that I am indebted 
for yet having a daughter ; give him, my boy, the hand of 
friendship; he deserves our warmest gratitude. (George 
looks at Mr. Burchell with astonishment and reverence, and 
keeps at a respectful distance, unmindful of his father's 
words.} 

Sophia. — My dear brother, why don't you thank my good 
deliverer? The brave should ever love each other. 

Burchell (finding that George recognizes him, he looks 
at the boy with a superior air.} — I again find, unthinking 
boy, that the same crime — (Ente? Jailer who steps up to 
Burchell and whispers in his ear.} Bid the fellow wait till 
I have leisure to receive him. (The Jailer goes out.} — I 
again find, sir, that you are guilty of the same offence for 
which you once had my reproof, and for which the law is 
now preparing its justest punishments. Where, sir, is the 
difference between a duellist, who hazards a life of no value, 
and the murderer who acts with greater security? 

Primrose. — Alas, sir, whoever you are, pity the poor mis- 
guided creature ; for what he has done was in obedience to 
a deluded mother, who, in the bitterness of her resentment, 
required him, upon her blessing, to avenge her quarrel. 



238 INNOCENCE REWARDED. 

Here, sir, is the letter which will serve to convince you of 
her imprudence, and diminish his guilt. 

Burchell {he takes the letter and reads it hastily). — 
This, though not a perfect excuse, is such a palliation of 
his fault as induces me to forgive him. And now, sir {he 
steps up to George and shakes him by the hand), I see you 
are surprised at finding me here ; but I have often visited 
prisons upon occasions less interesting. I am now come 
to see justice done a worthy man, for whom I have the most 
sincere esteem. I have long been a disguised spectator of 
thy father's benevolence. I have, at his little dwelling, en- 
joyed respect uncontaminated by flattery ; and have received 
that happiness that courts could not give, from the amusing 
simplicity around his fireside. My nephew has been ap- 
prised of my intentions of coming here, and I find, is 
arrived. It would be wronging him and you to condemn 
him without examination : if there be injury, there shall be 
redress; and this I may say without boasting that none 
have ever taxed the injustice of Sir William Thornhill. 
{He indicates himself with a gesture and all are amazed, 
while Sophia bursts into tears.) 

Mrs. Primrose {piteously). — Ah ! sir, how is it possible 
that I can ever have your forgiveness? The slights you 
received from me the last time I had the honor of seeing 
you at our house, and the jokes which I audaciously threw 
out — these jokes, sir, I fear, can never be forgiven. 

Burchell (with a smile). — My dear good lady, if you 
had your joke, I had my answer : I'll leave it to all the 
company if mine were not as good as yours. To say the 
truth, I know nobody whom I am disposed to be angry 
with at present but the fellow who so frightened my little 
girl here. I had not even time to examine the rascal's 
person so as to describe him in an advertisement. Can 



INNOCENCE REWARDED. 239 

you tell me, Sophia, my dear, whether you should know 
him again? 

Sophia. — Indeed, sir, I can't be positive ; yet now I 
recollect, he had a large mark over one of his eyebrows. 

Jenkinson (he has been in the background, but now pushes 
forward, interrupting her). — I ask pardon, madam, but be 
so good as to inform me if the fellow wore his own red hair? 

Sophia. — I think so. 

Jenkinson (to Burchett). — And did your honor observe 
the length of his legs? 

Burchell. — I can't be sure of their length, but I am 
convinced of their swiftness ; for he outran me, which is 
what I thought few men in the kingdom could have done. 

Jenkinson. — Please your honor, I know the man : it is 
certainly the same ; the best runner in England ; Timothy 
Baxter is his name ; I know him perfectly, and the very 
place of his retreat this moment. If your honor will bid 
Mr. Jailer let two of his men go with me, I'll engage to 
produce him to you in an hour at farthest. 

Burchell.— Will some one call the Jailer? (Moses 
goes out and returns with him. To the' Jailer.) Do you 
know who I am? 

Jailer. — Yes, please your honor, I know Sir William 
Thornhill well, and everybody that knows anything of him 
will desire to know more of him. 

Burchell. — Well, then, my request is that you will per- 
mit this man and two of your servants to go upon a message 
by my authority ; and as I am in the commission of the 
peace, I undertake to secure you. 

Jailer. — Your promise is sufficient, and you may at a 
minute's warning, send them over England whenever your 
honor thinks fit. (The Jailer and Jenki?ison go out and the 
curtain falls.) 



24O INNOCENCE REWARDED. 

Scene II. 

There are present, as the curtain rises, Sir William Thorn- 
hill, Dr. Primrose, Mrs. Primrose, Sophia and 
Moses. Enter Squire Thornhill, nephew to Sir 
William, and landlord to the Primroses. 

Sir William {to Squire, who is going to embrace his 
uncle). — No fawning, sir, at present ; the only way to my 
heart is by the road of honor ; but here I only see com- 
plicated instances of falsehood, cowardice, and oppression. 
How is it, sir, that this poor man, for whom I know you 
professed a friendship, is used thus hardly? His daughter 
vilely seduced as a recompense for his hospitality, and he 
himself thrown into prison perhaps but for resenting the 
insult ? His son, too, whom you feared to face as a man 

Squire {interrupting suavely). — Is it possible, sir, that 
my uncle should object that as a crime which his repeated 
instructions alone have persuaded me to avoid ? 

Sir William. — Your rebuke is just ; you have acted in 
this instance prudently and well, though not quite as your 
father would have done : my brother, indeed, was the soul 
of honor ; but thou — Yes, you have acted in this instance 
perfectly right, and it has my warmest approbation. 

Squire. — And I hope that the rest of my conduct will 
not be found to deserve censure. I appeared, sir, with 
this gentleman's daughter at some places of public amuse- 
ment ; thus what was levity, scandal called by a harsher 
name. I waited on her father in person, willing to clear 
the thing to his satisfaction, and he received me only with 
insult and abuse. As for the rest, with regard to his being 
here, my attorney and steward can best inform you, as I 
commit the management of business entirely to them. If 
he has contracted debts, and is unwilling, or even unable 



INNOCENCE REWARDED. 24 1 

to pay them, it is their business to proceed in this manner ; 
and I see no hardship or injustice in pursuing the most 
legal means of redress. 

Sir William. — If this be as you have stated it, there is 
nothing unpardonable in your offence ; and though your 
conduct might have been more generous in not suffering 
this gentleman to be oppressed by subordinate tyranny, yet 
it has been at least equitable. 

Squire. — He cannot contradict a single particular; I 
defy him to do so ; and several of my servants are ready 
to attest what I say. Thus, sir, my own innocence is vin- 
dicated ; but though at your entreaty I am ready to forgive 
this gentleman every other offence, yet his attempts to 
lessen me in your esteem excite a resentment that I cannot 
govern. And this, too, at a time when his son was actually 
preparing to take away my life, — this, I say, was such guilt, 
that I am determined to let the law take its course. I 
have here the challenge that was sent me, and two wit- 
nesses to prove it : one of my servants has been wounded 
dangerously; and even though my uncle himself should 
dissuade me, which I know he will not, yet I will see public 
justice done, and he shall suffer for it. 

Mrs. Primrose. — Thou monster ! hast thou not had ven- 
geance enough already, but must my poor boy feel thy 
cruelty ? I hope that good Sir William will protect us ; for 
my son is as innocent as a child ; I am sure he is, and 
never did harm to man. 

Sir William. — Madam, your wishes for his safety are not 
greater than mine ; but I am sorry to find his guilt too 

plain ; and if my nephew persists (Jenkins on and the 

servants of the Jailer here enter, dragging a very tall man 
with red hair.) 

Jenkinson. — Here — here we have him ; and if ever there 



242 INNOCENCE REWARDED. 

was a candidate of Tyburn, this is one. (At sight of these 
men the Squire shrinks back and attempts to escape, but 
Jenkinson stops him.) What, Squire, are you ashamed of 
your two old acquaintances, Jenkinson and Baxter? But. 
this is the way that all great men forget their friends, though 
I am resolved we will not forget you. — {To Sir William.) 
Our prisoner has already confessed all. This is the gentle- 
man reported to be so dangerously wounded. He declares 
that it was Mr. Thornhill {pointing to the Squire), who first 
put him upon this affair ; that he gave him the clothes he 
now wears to appear like a gentleman, and furnished him 
with the post-chaise. The plan was laid between them that 
he should carry off the young lady to a place of safety, and 
that there he should threaten and terrify her. But Mr. 
Thornhill was to come in, in the mean time, as if by acci- 
dent to her rescue ; and that they should fight awhile, and 
then, he was to run off, — by which Mr. Thornhill would 
have the better opportunity of gaining her affections him- 
self, under the character of her defender. 

Sir William. — I remember that I have seen that coat on 
my nephew. — Baxter, is this your confession? 

Baxter. — Yes, please your honor, and more. Mr. Thorn- 
hill has often said to me that he was in love with both 
sisters at the same time. 

Sir William. — Heavens ! what a viper have I been foster- 
ing in my bosom ! And so fond of public justice, too, as 
he seemed to be ! But he shall have it ; secure him, Mr. 
Jailer. — Yet hold ! I fear there is not legal evidence to 
detain him. 

Squire (with great humility). — I entreat you, sir, not to 
admit as evidence against me the testimony of two such 
abandoned wretches ; I ask you to examine my servants. 

Sir William. — Your servants ! Wretch ! call them yours 



INNOCENCE REWARDED. 243 

no longer • but come, let us hear what those fellows have 
to say; let his butler be called. {The Jailer goes out and 
brings him in.) Tell me {sternly to butler), have you seen 
your master and that fellow dressed up in his clothes in 
company together? 

Butler. — Yes, please your honor, a thousand times : he 
was the man that always brought him his ladies. 

Squire. — How ! this to my face? 

Butler. — Yes, or to any man's face. To tell you a 
truth, Master Thornhill, I never either loved you or liked 
you, and I don't care if I tell you now a piece of my 
mind. 

Jenkinson. — Now then, tell his honor whether you know 
anything of me. - 

Butler. — I can't say that I know much good of you. 
The night that gentleman's daughter was deluded to our 
house, you were one of them. 

Sir William. — So then I find you have brought a very 
fine witness to prove your innocence : thou stain of huma- 
nity ! to associate with such wretches ! — {To the butler.) 
But you tell me, Mr. Butler, that this was the person who 
brought him this old gentleman's daughter. 

Butler. — No, please your honor, he did not bring her, 
for the Squire himself undertook that business ; but he 
brought the priest that married them. 

Squire. — You lie, like a rascal ! I was never legally 
married to any woman. , 

Sir William. — Good heavens ! how every new discovery 
of his villainy alarms me ! At my request, Mr. Jailer, set 
that young officer, now your prisoner, free, and trust me 
for the consequences. But where is the unfortunate young 
lady herself? Let her appear to confront this wretch. 

Jenkinson. — Indeed, begging your honor's pardon, if the 



244 INNOCENCE REWARDED. 

company can restrain their curiosity a few minutes, they 
shall see her. {He darts off.) 

Squire. — Ay, let him go ; whatever else I may have done, 
I defy him there. I am too old to be frightened with squibs. 

Sir William. — I am surprised what the fellow can intend 
by this. Some low piece of humor, I suppose ! 

Primrose. — Perhaps, sir, he may have a more serious 
meaning. For when we reflect on the various schemes this 
gentleman {referring to the Squire) has laid to seduce in- 
nocence, perhaps some one more artful than the rest has 
been found able to deceive him. When we consider what 
numbers he 

Enter Jenkinson with Olivia. 

Amazement ! Do I see my lost daughter? Do I hold her? 
It is, it is my life, my happiness ! I thought thee lost, my 
Olivia, yet still I hold thee — and still thou shalt live to bless 
me. And art thou returned to me, my darling, to be my 
comfort in age? 

Jenkinson. — That she is and make much of her, for she 
is your own honorable child, and as honest a woman as any 
in the whole room, let the other be who she will. And as 
for you, Squire, as sure as you stand there, this young lady 
is your lawful wedded wife ; and to convince you that I 
speak nothing but the truth, here is the license by which 
you were married together. {He hands it to Sir Willia?n.) 

Sir William {after reading it careful/)}. — I find this per- 
fect in every respect. 

Jenkinson. — And now, gentlemen, a few words will ex- 
plain the difficulty. That there Squire of renown com- 
missioned me to procure him a false license and a false 
priest, in order to deceive this young lady. But as I was 
very much his friend, what did I do, but went and got a 



INNOCENCE REWARDED. 245 

true license and a true priest, and married them Doth as 
fast as the cloth could make them. Perhaps you'll think 
it was generosity that made me do all this • but no, to my 
shame I confess it, my only design was to keep the license 
and let the Squire know that I could prove it upon him 
whenever I thought proper, and so make him come down 
whenever I wanted money. (A murmur of delight runs 
through the group, except that the Squire looks very crest- 
fallen and falls before his uncle, wringing his hands.) 

Sir William {raising his foot and hand to kick him out, 
but suddenly stopping a fnoment, he speaks). — Thy vices, 
crimes and ingratitude deserve no tenderness ; yet thou 
shalt not be entirely forsaken, — a bare competence shall be 
supplied to support the wants of life, but not its follies. 
This young lady, thy wife, shall be put in possession of a 
third part of that fortune which once was thine, and from 
her tenderness alone thou art to expect any extraordinary 
supplies for the future. 

Squire {he has been raised to his feet by Sir William 
during the preceding speech, and now makes a formal bow), 
— I return the greatest thanks — such kindness 

Sir William. — Hold ! do not aggravate a meanness which 
is but too apparent. Be gone from our sight, and from all 
your former domestics choose one as you think proper ; for 
this is all that shall be granted to attend you. ( The Squire 
goes out and Sir William turns to the group with a smile.) 
I think now that all the company, except one or two, seem 
perfectly happy. There only remains an act of justice for 
me to do. {Titrning to Dr. Primrose.) You are sensible, 
sir, of the obligations we both owe to Mr. Jenkinson ; and 
it is but just we should both reward him for it. Miss Sophia 
will, I am sure, make him very happy, and he shall have 
from me five hundred pounds as her fortune \ and upon 



246 INNOCENCE REWARDED. 

this I am sure they can live very comfortably together. 
Come, Miss Sophia, what say you to this match of my 
making? Will you have him? 

Sophia {recoils and almost falls into her mother's arms). 
— Have him, sir ! no, sir, never ! 

Sir William.— What ! not have Mr. Jenkinson, your 
benefactor, a handsome young fellow, with five hundred 
pounds, and good expectations? 

Sophia {hardly able to speak). — I beg, sir, that you'll 
desist, and not make me so very wretched. 

Sir William. — Was ever such obstinacy known? To 
refuse a man whom the family have such infinite obligations 
to, who has preserved your sister, and who has five hundred 
pounds ! What; not have him? 

Sophia. — No, sir, never ! I'd sooner die first. 

Sir William. — If that be the case, then, if you will not 
have him — I think I must have you myself. {He catches 
her in his arms.) My loveliest, my most sensible of girls, 
how could you ever think your own Burchell could deceive 
you, or that Sir William Thorn hill could ever cease to ad- 
mire one that loved him for himself alone? I have sought 
some years for a woman, who, a stranger to my fortune, 
could think that I had merit as a man. After having tried 
in vain, even amongst the pert and ugly, how great at last 
must be my rapture to have made a conquest over such 
sense and such heavenly beauty. {Turning to Jenkinson.) 
As I cannot, sir, part with this young lady myself, for she 
has taken a fancy to the cut of my face, all the recompense 
I can make is to give you her fortune ; and you may call 
upon my steward to-morrow for five hundred pounds. 

CURTAIN. 



